UC-N 


B    3    3E5    DflO 


THE 


SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 


BY 


MRS.   All  S.   STEPHENS. 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    GOLD  BRICK,''  "FASHION  AND  FAMINE,"    "MART 

DERWENT,"  "THE  OLD  HOMESTEAD,"  "THE  REJECTED   WIFE," 

"THE  HEIRESS,"  "WIFE'S  SECRET,"  "SILENT  STRUGGLES." 


T.    B.    PETERSON    AND    BROTHERS; 
306    CHESTNUT     STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1SG6,  by 
MRS.    ANN    S.    STEPHENS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 
A  FRIEND  IN  NEED 21 

CHAPTER  II. 
PREPARING  FOR  THE  FAIR 41 

CHAPTER  III. 
THE  OLD  MAID  . . . 52 

CHAPTER   IY. 
THE  FAIR 61 

CHAPTER  V. 
AN  UNEXPECTED  PERFORMER 75 

CHAPTER   VI. 
THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH 88 

CHAPTER    VII. 
THE  UNCLE  FLEECED 97 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
BRAVE  YOUNG  HEARTS 109 

CHAPTER  IX. 
THE  NEWSBOY 121 

CHAPTER  X. 
ROBERT  GETS  A  SITUATION 127 

CHAPTER  XI. 
AN  INTRUDER 134 

(19) 

M274798 


20  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER    XII.  PA«I 

AN  ECCENTRIC  DRIVE 148 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING 155 

CHAPTER  XIY. 
LOVE  AND  MALICE 171 

CHAPTER  XY. 
A  HARD-HEARTED  VILLAIN 195 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  SERPENT 206 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
A  NEW  LIGHT 220 

CHAPTER   XVIII. 
A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE 231 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE 248 

CHAPTER   XX. 
A  BOLD  STROKE  FOR  A  HUSBAND 265 

CHAPTER    XXI. 
A  HUNGRY  HEART 279 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
A  MYSTERIOUS  APPOINTMENT 289 

CHAPTER   XXIII. 
AN  ENGAGEMENT 297 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 
CONCLUSION 315 


THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS, 


CHAPTER  I. 

A   FRIEND    IN    NEED. 

GOD  help  the  poor  who  have  ever  known  the  refine 
ments  of  comfort !  God  help  that  little  family,  for  it 
had  been  driven  first  from  comfortable  apartments, 
where  many  a  tasteful  object  had  rendered  home  cheer 
ful,  to  the  garret  rooms  of  a  poor  house  in  one  of  the 
most  neglected  streets  of  Philadelphia.  Upward,  from 
story  to  story,  those  helpless  ones  had  been  forced  by 
that  hard  task  master  poverty,  till  they  found  shelter  at 
last  under  the  very  roof.  Their  attic  had  only  one 
window,  a  small  dormer  one,  which  looked  out  upon 
stacks  of  chimneys,  grouped  like  black  sentinels  huddled 
over  uneven  roofs,  and  down  upon  yards  full  of  broken 
barrels,  old  fragments  of  sheet-iron,  scraps  of  oil-cloth, 
piles  of  brick  and  broken  stoves,  rusted  lengths  of  refuse 
pipe,  and  all  the  odds  and  ends  which  scores  of  poverty- 
stricken  families  had  cast  forth  from  their  dwellings. 
Above  these,  from  window  to  window,  swinging  high  in 
the  wind,  lines,  heavy  with  wet  clothes,  were  fluttering 
dismally,  giving  forth  a  sudden  rush  of  sound  now 

(21) 


22          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

and  then  like  broken-winged  birds  making  wild  efforts 
to  fly. 

This  was  the  scene  upon  which  that  quiet  old  woman 
looked,  as  she  sat  in  a  low  chair  close  by  the  window. 
Not  a  scrap  of  green — not  a  tree-bough  broke  the  coarse 
monotony  when  her  eyes  turned  earthward.  But  it  was 
near  sunset,  and  over  the  house-tops  came  a  flood  of 
burning  light,  bronzing  the  chimneys  and  scattering 
rich  scintillations  of  gold  on  the  roofs ;  and  this  poor 
old  woman  smiled  thoughtfully  as  she  saw  it,  praising 
God  in  her  heart  that  he  gave  the  glory  of  sunset  and 
of  the  dawn  alike  to  the  poor  and  the  rich.  She  was  a 
plain,  simple,  pleasant-faced  old  woman,  with  a  cap  of 
soft,  white  muslin,  harmonizing  sweetly  with  the  hair 
folded  back  from  her  forehead,  white  as  snow,  and  soft 
as  floss  silk.  Her  dress,  an  old  brown  merino,  had  been 
darned  and  patched,  and  turned  in  all  its  breadths  more 
than  once ;  but  it  was  so  neat  and  fitted  her  dainty  old 
figure  so  perfectly,  that  you  could  not  help  admiring  it. 
Over  this  she  wore  an  old-fashioned  kerchief,  cut  from 
some  linen  garment,  which  lay  in  folds  across  her 
bosom,  like  the  marble  drapery  sculptured  around  a 
statue. 

The  old  woman  had  her  spectacles  on,  and  her  with 
ered  fingers  were  busy  with  a  child's  shoe.  They  trem 
bled  a  good  deal,  and  seemed  scarcely  able  to  force  her 
needle  through  the  tough  leather,  which  broke  away 
from  her  stitches  with  crisp  obstinacy.  Still  she  toiled 
on,  striving  to  close  a  great  rent  in  the  side  of  the  shoe, 
till  a  stronger  pull  at  the  thread  tore  the  leather  half 
across  the  instep,  and  rendered  her  task  utterly  hope 
less.  That  good  old  creature  dropped  the  shoe  to  her 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          23 

lap,  sighed  heavily,  and,  turning  her  eyes  on  the  sunset, 
softened  into  patient  composure. 

Just  then  two  boys,  the  elder  ten,  the  younger,  per 
haps,  seven  years  of  age,  came  into  the  room  very  softly 
—for  those  bare  feet  made  no  noise  on  the  floor— each 
carrying  a  quantity  of  freshly-opened  oyster-shells  in 
his  arms.  The  two  children  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
room,  and  began  to  sort  over  the  shells  with  eao-er 
haste. 

"  Here  is  one— here  is  one  !»  whispered  the  elder  boy ; 
"  not  so  very  small  either.  Get  me  a  knife." 

The  little  fellow  went  to  a  pine  table  close  by,  took  a 
broken  case-knife  from  the  drawer,  and  ran  back  with 
it  to  his  brother,  who  held  a  huge  oyster-shell  in  his 
hand,  to  which  was  attached  a  tolerably  sized  oyster 
still  unopened.  The  elder  boy  snatched  at  the  knife, 
beat  the  oyster  open,  and,  pressing  the  shell  back,  lifted 
it  greedily  toward  his  lips ;  but  when  he  caught  the 
wistful  look  of  his  half-famished  brother,  the  generous 
child  withdrew  the  morsel  slowly  from  his  mouth,  and 
gave  it  up  to  the  two  little,  eager  hands  held  forth  to 
receive  it.  The  moment  his  fingers  closed  on  the  shell, 
this  little  hero  sprang  away  with  it  to  his  grandmother's 
side. 

'Here,  grandma,  grandma!  take  it  quick— take  it 
quick !»  he  cried,  breathless,  with  a  spirit  of  self-sacri 
fice  that  might  have  honored  a  strong  man. 

The  grandmother  turned  her  mild,  brown  eyes  on  the 
little,  famished  face  uplifted  so  eagerly  to  hers,  and, 
understanding  all  the  heroism  expressed  there,  gently 
shook  her  head,  while  a  sweet,  patient  smile  crept  around 
her  lips. 


24  THE     SOLDIERS     ORPHANS. 

"Eat  it  yourself,  Joseph,"  she  said,  patting  him  on 
the  shoulder  with  her  withered  hand.  "  There  is  only  a 
mouthful,  and  you  are  the  youngest." 

"  No,  no,  grandma  I     It  is  for  you — for  you." 

"  Hollo,  I  have  found  another,  two,  three — one  apiece ; 
and  another  left  for  Anna,  when  she  comes  in.  Eat 
away,  grandma,  there  is  enough  for  all.  That  man  who 
keeps  the  stand  at  the  corner  is  a  famous  fellow;  he 
threw  them  in,  I'll  be  bound." 

Little  Joseph  thrust  the  open  oyster  into  his  grand 
mother's  hand,  cut  a  caper  with  his  bare  feet,  and  rushed 
back  to  the  pile  of  shells  in  hot  haste. 

"Save  the  biggest  for  Anna,"  he  shouted;  "'don't 
touch  that." 

With  that  the  two  children  huddled  themselves  down 
among  the  shells;  and  Robert,  the  elder,  opened  the 
two  oysters  that  fell  to  their  portion  with  great  ostenta 
tion,  as  if  he  delighted  in  prolonging  his  pleasure  by 
anticipation. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "eat  slow  and  get  the  whole  taste. 
It  isn't  every  day  that  we  get  a  treat  like  this." 

Joseph  did  his  best  to  obey,  but  the  greed  of  pro 
tracted  hunger  made  short  work  with  his  morsel.  Still 
he  smacked  his  lips  and  made  motions  with  his  mouth, 
as  if  enjoying  the  treat  long  after  it  was  devoured. 

"Now,"  said  Kobert,  "let's  build  a  bridge  across  the 
hearth;  or  a  railroad,  or  something  worth  while." 

"A  bridge — a  pontoon  bridge,  such  as  Anna  told  us 
of  when  father's  regiment  crossed  that  river.  Every 
oyster-shell  shall  be  a  boat,  and  the  hearth  shall  be  a 
river;  and — and — but  there  comes  Anna,  walking  so 
tired,  I  know  it  by  her  step.  .Open  that  other  oyster, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          25 

Robert,  for  she  hasn't  tasted  a  mouthful  since  yester 
day ;  be  quick.'7 

Robert  seized  his  knife,  and  was  using  it  vigorously 
when  his  sister  Anna  came  in,  pale,  weary,  and  so  dis 
pirited,  that  the  heaviness  of  utter  despair  seemed  upon 
her. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  she  is  not  at  home.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  collect  one  cent.  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

The  young  girl  flung  herself  on  a  chair  by  the  table, 
and,  covering  her  face,  began  to  cry  very  noiselessly,  but 
in  the  deep  bitterness  of  distress.  "  Not  one  cent,  grand 
ma,  and  I  worked  so  hard." 

The  old  lady  arose  from  her  place  by  the  window, 
where  the  sunset  had  kindled  up  her  meek  face  like  a 
picture,  and  went  quietly  up  to  the  weeping  girl. 

"  Don't  cry,  Anna,"  she  said,  smoothing  the  hair  back 
from  her  granddaughter's  forehead.  "  We  have  all  had 
a  little  of  something ;  and  to-morrow  will  be  a  new  day. 
I  suppose  the  lady  is  busy  about  the  fair." 

"But  I  had  depended  on  it  so  thoroughly,"  sobbed 
the  girl,  looking  drearily  at  the  oyster  shells  scattered 
on  the  hearth.  "I  had  promised  the  boys  such  a  supper, 
and  now  all  is  emptiness ;  their  poor,  bare  feet,  how 
cold  they  look!" 

"But  we  are  not  cold,  we  rather  like  it,"  cried 
Robert,  forcing  a  laugh  through  the  tears  that  quivered 
in  his  voice.  "Arn't  we  learning  to  be  tough  against 
the  time  that  drummer-boys  will  be  wanted?" 

Anna  smiled  so  drearily  that  Robert  had  no  heart  to 
go  on.  The  old  lady  bent  over  her  granddaughter  and 
asked,  in  a  whisper,  if  any  thing  else  had  happened. 
Anna  was  not  a  girl  to  give  way  like  that  for  a  single 


26          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

disappointment,  dark  as  the  hour  was  for  them ;  and  the 
old  woman  knew  it. 

"  There  has  been  a  battle.  Extras  are  out,  but  I  had 
no  money  to  buy  one,'-'  Anna  replied,  in  a  broken  whis 
per.  "  He  may  be  dead  !" 

"No,  no;  don't  say  that,"  pleaded  the  old  woman, 
retreating  to  her  chair.  "  God  help  us  !  We  could  not 
bear  it !" 

Robert  listened  keenly;  the  knife  dropped  from  his 
hand ;  his  very  lips  were  white.  He  crept  toward  the 
door  and  darted  down-stairs.  Plight  after  flight  he  de 
scended  at  a  sharp  run,  and  then  dashed  into  the  street. 
No  newsboy  ever  hoped  for  custom  in  that  neighbor 
hood  ;  but  around  a  far  distant  corner  he  saw  one  pass 
ing  with  a  bundle  of  papers  under  his  arm.  With  the 
speed  of  a  deer  Robert  leaped  along  the  pavement, 
shouting  after  the  newsboy  as  he  went.  His  cry,  so 
shrill  and  desperate,  arrested  the  lad,  who  paused  for 
his  customer  to  come  up. 

"  Oh !  give  me  a  paper ! — give  me  a  paper !  My  father 
was  in  the  battle  !"  cried  Robert,  shaking  from  head  to 
foot  under  the  force  of  his  anxiety. 

"All  right,"  answered  the  sharp  boy — "all  right;  ten 
cents,  and  hurry  up." 

"I  haven't  got  the  money;  but  my  father  was  in  the 
battle,  and  my  sister  is  breaking  her  heart  to  know " 

"  Hand  over  a  five,  then,  and  be  quick." 

"  I  haven't  got  a  single  cent ;  but  my  father  is  a 
soldier." 

"  Nary  a  red,  ha !  and  keeping  me  like  this.  Oh !  you 
get  out.  Business  is  business,  and  sogers  is  sogers ;  a 
fellow  can't  let  his  heart  wear  holes  in  his  jacket." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN'S.          27 

"  But  I  want  it  so — I  want  it  so."     • 

The  boy  tore  himself  away  from  Robert's  feeble  grasp,, 
and  went  on  shouting  lustily  for  new  customers,  leaving 
the  soldier's  son  shivering  in  the  street,  his  eyes  full  of 
tears,  and  his  heart  aching  with  pain.  Robert  stood  a 
moment  looking  wistfully  at  the  newspapers  flitting 
away  from  him,  and  in  his  disappointment  formed  a  new 
resolution. 

When  his  sister  went  out  that  morning,  she  had  men 
tioned  the  name  and  address  of  a  lady,  celebrated  for 
her  energy  in  all  charitable  associations,  and  who  was 
now  the  leading  spirit  of  a  grand  fair  for  the  benefit  of 
the  soldiers,  which  was  soon  to  occupy  fashionable 
attention. 

This  lady  might  be  at  home.  She  owed  his  sister 
money  for  fancy  articles  made  up  for  this  fair.  He 
would  go  and  ask  for  enough  to  give  them  food ;  at  any 
rate,  to  get  a  paper,  which  might  tell  how  bravely  his 
father's  regiment  had  fought. 

Again  the  boy  started  off  at  a  rapid  run,  and  now  his 
course  lay  toward  that  part  of  the  city  which  seems  so 
far  lifted  above  all  the  cares  and  privations  of  life  that 
it  is  little  wonder  the  poor  are  filled  with  envy  when 
they  creep  out  of  their  alleys  and  garrets  to  behold  its 
splendor.  They  little  know  how  many  cares  and  heart 
aches  may  be  found  even  in  this  favored  quarter  ;  and 
it  is  not  remarkable  that  the  outward  contrast  presented 
to  them  should  often  engender  bitter  feelings,  and  even 
intense  hatred. 

The  boy  had  none  of  these  thoughts.  He  was  only 
eager  to  get  food  for  those  he  loved,  and  hear  news  that 
might  bring  smiles  back  to  the  lovely  face  of  his  sister.  4 


28  THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS. 

He  was  naturally  sensitive,  and  not  long  ago  his  father 
had  been  among  the  most  prosperous  and  respectable 
of  the  working  classes.  At  another  time  his  naked  feet 
and  worn  cap,  which  but  half  concealed  the  bright  waves 
of  his  hair,  might  have  checked  his  ardor,  and  sent  him 
cowering  back  to  the  concealment  of  his  garret-home. 
Now  he  forgot  the  chill  that  penetrated  his  feet  from 
the  cold  pavement,  and  went  on  his  way,  resolute  to  save 
his  sister  from  the  sorrow  that  had  wounded  him  to  the 
heart. 

"  She  hates  to  ask  these  grand  people  for  her  money," 
he  thought.  "  I  will  do  it  for  her.  It  is  a  man's  place 
to  take  the  brunt ;  and  when  father  is  fighting  for  his 
country,  I  must  try  to  be  man  enough  to  act  as  he  did." 

With  these  thoughts,  Robert  mounted  the  marble  steps 
of  a  spacious  white  mansion,  whose  walls  were  like  petri 
fied  snow,  and  whose  windows  were  each  a  broad  sheet  of 
crystal  limpid  as  water.  Robert's  cold  feet  left  their 
tracks  on  the  pure  marble,  as  he  mounted  the  steps,  and 
his  little  hand  drew  the  silver  knob  with  breathless  ter 
ror  when  he  rang  the  bell. 

A  mulatto  servant  opened  the  door,  saw  the  lad  shiv 
ering  outside  the  vestibule,  and  drew  back  in  a  fit  of 
sublime  indignation. 

"How  dare  you?  What  brings  you  here?"  he  ex 
claimed,  eyeing  the  lad  with  august  scorn.  This  is  no 
place  for  vagrants  or  beggar-boys- — 

"  I — I  am  not  a  beggar-boy ;  and  I  don't  think  I  am 
the  other  thing.  If  you  please,  I  want  to  see  the  laity,' 
said  the  boy,  resolutely. 

"  Thrlady !_  What  lady  can  you  have  any  thing  to 
do  with  ?"  demanded  the  servant. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN'S.          29 

"Mrs.  Savage,  I  think  that  is  her  name." 

"Who  told  you  that?  What  do  you  want  of  Mrs 
Savage  ?" 

"I  want  some  money." 

"  Yes,  I  thought  as  much.  Now  tramp,  I  tell  you  ; 
and  next  time  you  come  to  a  gentleman's  house,  learn  to 
go  to  the  back  gate." 

"  But  no,  no ;  pray  don't  shut  the  door.     My  sister 

has  done  work  for  the  lady,  and " 

"Very  likely.      Mrs.   Savage   is  very  likely  to  owe 
money  to  any  one.    My  young  friend  your  story  is  get 
ting  richer  and  richer.     She  owe  you  money,  indeed !" 
"  Indeed— indeed  she  does." 

"  There,  there,  get  out  of  the  way.  Don't  you  see  the 
young  gentleman  coming  up  the  steps  ?  Make  off  with 
yourself!" 

Robert  turned,  and  saw  a  handsome  young  man  spring 
out  of  one  of  those  light  wagons  sometimes  used  for 
riding,  in  which  was  a  pair  of  fiery  young  horses,  black 
as  jet,  and  specked  about  the  chest  with  flashes  of  foam. 
He  flung  the  reins  to  a  groom  as  he  stepped  to  the  pave 
ment  and  mounted  the  steps,  smiling  cheerfully,  as  if 
his  drive  had  been  a  pleasant  one. 

"  What  is  this  ?  Stop  a  moment,  my  boy,"  said  the 
young  man,  as  Robert  passed  him  on  the  steps  with 
angry  shame  burning  in  his  face.  «  Did  you  want  any 
thing?  Money  to  buy  shoes  with,  perhaps;  here— 
here." 

The  young  man  took  out  his  porte-monnaie,  and  se 
lecting  a  bank  note  from  its  contents,  handed  it  to  the 
boy. 


30          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  No,  sir — no,  sir.  I  did  not  come  to  beg ;  though  he 
says  I  did,"  cried  the  boy,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Then  what  did  you  come  for,  my  boy  ?" 

"  The  lady  in  yonder  hired  my  sister  to  do  some  work 
for  a  fair,  and  it  is  that  I  come  about.  We  need  the 
money  so  much ;  and  Anna  is  ashamed  to  ask  for  it. 
She  would  rather  go  hungry." 

"  What,  my  mother  owes  money  to  a  working-girl, 
who  hesitates  to  ask  for  it ! — that  must  be  from  mistake 
or  forgetfulness.  Is  Mrs.  Savage  at  home,  Jared  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  answered  the  servant.  "She  is  with  the 
committee,  and  will  be  till  late." 

The  young  man  turned  to  Robert  again.  The  boy 
was  watching  him  with  wistful  attention.  Tears  stood 
in  those  large  blue  eyes,  and  under  its  glow  of  new-born 
hope  the  face  was  beautiful.  No  beggar-boy,  immortal 
ized  by  Murillo,  was  ever  more  striking.  Young  Savage 
had  a  kind  heart,  but  his  tastes  were  peculiarly  fastid 
ious  ;  and  it  is  doubtful  if  a  common  boy,  with  bare  feet 
and  poverty-stricken  clothes,  could  have  kept  him  so 
long  on  those  marble  steps. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  bending  a  kindly  glance  on  the  lad, 
"  if  your  home  is  not  far  from  here,  I  will  go  with  you 
and  settle  this  matter." 

The  lad  hesitated,  and  cast  down  his  eyes.  He  was 
ashamed  to  take  this  elegant  gentleman  into  his  home, 
or  that  his  beautiful  sister  should  be  found  in  that  place. 
Young  Savage  mistook  this  hesitation  for  a  less  worthy 
feeling.  "  The  boy  is  a  little  impostor,"  he  said  to  him 
self.  "  He  has  seen  my  mother  go  out,  and  hopes  to 
obtain  something  by  this  ridiculous  claim.  I  will  un 
earth  the  little  fox !" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPIIAN.S.  81 

"  Come,  come,"  he  said,  laughing  lightly,  "  show  me 
the  way." 

Robert  was  a  sharp  lad,  and  read  something  of  the 
truth  in  that  handsome  face.  He  turned  at  once  and 
went  down  the  steps.  Savage  followed  him,  interested 
in  spite  of  himself,  and  half  amused  at  the  idea  of  fer 
reting  out  a  deception.  Robert  did  not  speak,  but 
looked  back,  now  and  then,  as  he  turned  a  corner,  to  be 
sure  that  the  gentleman  was  following  him.  The  face 
of  young  Savage  grew  more  and  more  serious,  as  he 
passed  deeper  into  the  neighborhood  where  low  shanties, 
and  high,  barren-looking  tenement-houses  were  crowded 
together.  He  passed  whole  families  huddled  together 
in  the  entrance  to  some  damp  basement,  cold  as  it  was, 
craving  the  fresh  air  that  could  not  be  found  within. 
Groups  of  reckless  children,  happy  in  spite  of  their  visi 
ble  destitution,  were  playing  in  the  twilight,  which  filled 
the  poverty  of  the  street  with  a  golden  haze,  such  as 
heaven  alone  lends  to  the  poor.  The  sight  pained  him, 
and  he  grew  thoughful. 

"  Here  is  the  place,  sir,"  said  Robert,  pausing  at  the 
door  of  a  tall,  bleak  building,  crowded  full  of  windows 
that  turned  coldly  to  the  north.  "  If  you  please,  I  will 
run  up  first  and  tell  them  you  are  coming." 

"  No,  no,  that  will  never  do,"  answered  Savage.  "  I 
shall  lose  my  way  along  this  railway  of  stairs." 

Robert  saw  that  he  was  still  suspected,  and  began,  to 
mount  the  stairs  without  a  pretext.  Up  and  up  he  went, 
followed  by  the  young  man,  till  they  reached  a  place 
where  the  stairs  gave  out,  and  they  stood  directly  under 
the  roof. 

"  Here  is  the  room,  sir,"  said  Robert,  gently  opening 


32          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

a  door,  and  revealing  a  picture  within  the  little  apartment 
which  arrested  young  Savage  where  he  stood.  This  was 
the  picture. 

A  young  girl  with  raven  black  hair,  so  black  that  a 
purplish  bloom  lay  on  its  ripples,  stood  upon  the 
hearth,  stooping  over  a  delicate  little  boy,  whose  meagre 
white  face  was  uplifted  to  hers  with  a  piteous  look  of 
suffering.  An  old  woman,  in  a  low,  easy-chair,  sat  close 
by  the  child,  who  huddled  himself  against  her  knees,  and 
clung  to  her  garments  as  if  he  had  been  pleading  for 
something.  In  the  background  was  a  lead-colored  man 
tle-piece,  a  hollow  fireplace,  and  a  few  half  extinguished 
embers  dying  out  in  a  bed  of  ashes.  It  was  a  gloomy 
picture,  yet  not  without  warmth  and  beauty ;  for  the 
dying  sunbeams  came  through  the  window,  goldenly  as 
an  artist  would  have  thrown  them  on  canvas ;  and  the 
pure,  delicate  face  of  the  child  was  like  a  head  of  St. 
John.  Never  on  this  earth  did  human  genius  embody 
a  more  lovely  idea  of  the  Madonna  than  Anna  Burns 
made,  with  her  worn  dress  of  crimson  merino,  her  narrow 
collar  and  cuffs  of  white  linen  standing  out  warmly  from 
the  sombre  brown  of  the  grandmother's  dress. 

Savage  unconsciously  lifted  the  hat  from  his  head,  and 
stood  upon  the  threshold  struck  with  a  sort  of  reverence. 
Anna  was  speaking  to  the  child,  and  did  not  observe 
him,  or  her  brother.  Her  voice,  saddened  by  grief,  fell 
upqn  his  ear  with  a  pathos  that  thrilled  him. 

"Wait  a  little— only  a  little  while,  darling,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  plead  so,  I  will  go  again.  You  shall  have  some 
thing  to  eat,  if  I  beg  for  it  in  the  street,  only  do  not  look 
at  me  so." 

"  But  I  am  so  hungry,"  pleaded  the  child. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          33 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it !  Oh,  grandma !  what  can  I 
do?" 

She  changed  her  position,  then,  and  wringing  her 
hands,  went  to  the  window,  thus  breaking  up  the  pic 
ture,  and  sobbing  piteously. 

Young  Savage  entered  the  room,  then,  reverently,  as 
if  he  were  passing  by  a  shrine. 

"  Madam — young  lady,  I  have  come  from — from  my 
mother." 

Anna  turned,  and  saw  this  strange  young  man  stand 
ing  before  her,  with  his  head  uncovered,  and  his  hand 
some  face  beaming  with  generous  emotion.  She  hastily 
brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and,  unconsciously, 
smoothed  her  hair  with  one  hand,  ashamed  of  the  dis 
order  into  which  her  grief  had  thrown  it. 

"  My  name  is  Savage,"  continued  the  young  man, 
while  a  faint  smile  quivered  over  his  lips,  as  he  observed 
this  little  feminine  movement.  "  I  met  this  boy,  your 
brother,  I  think.  I — I  wish  to  settle  my  mother's  ac 
count.  Pray  tell  me  how  much  it  is  ?" 

"  I  beg  pardon.  I  am  very,  very  sorry  to  trouble  any 
one  so  much.  Indeed " 

"  She  didn't  do  it.  I  went  on  my  own  hook,"  broke 
in  Robert,  who  came  forward  with  a  glow  on  his  face. 
"  She  considers  it  begging  to  ask  for  her  own,  but  I 
don't." 

"  That  is  right,  my  good  fellow,"  answered  Savage. 
"  Business  should  be  left  to  men.  You  and  I  can  settle 
this  little  affair." 

"No,  that   is  not  necessary,"  said   Anna,   smiling. 
"  It  is  so  small  a  sum  that  a  word  settles  it.     Only  I 
2 


34          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

should  like  your  mother  to  know  how  thankful  I  am  to 
her  for  giving  us  something  to  do." 

"Will  this  be  enough?"  said  the  young  man,  placing 
a  ten  dollar  note  upon  the  window-sill. 

"Half  of  that— half  of  that,   sir;    but   I  have  no 
change." 

The  young  man  blushed. 

"You  can  give  it  me  some  other  time,  perhaps." 
"  I'll  run  and  get  it  changed,"  broke  in  Robert. 
Anna  handed  him  the  bank-note. 
"  No,  no !  I  insist !"  said  Savage,  earnestly.     "  There 
is  no  need  of  change.    My  mother— in  fact  I  want  more 
work  done.     Let  your  brother  come  to  me  in  the  morn 
ing;  I  shall  have  ever  so  many  handkerchiefs  to  mark 
with  initial  letters,  which  I   am   sure   you  embroider 
daintily.     Besides,  I  have  a  fancy  to  make  my  mother 
a  present  of  one  of  those  worsted  shawls— all  lace-work 
and  bright  colors— such  as   nice   old  ladies  can  knit 
without  injury  to  the  eyesight.     I  dare  say  you  could 
do  that  sort  of  thing,  madam  ?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  answered  the  old  lady,  brightening  visi 
bly.  "'If  I  only  had  the  worsted  to  begin  with,  and 

needles,  and -" 

"  That  is  just  what  I  leave  the  extra  five  dollars  for. 
Robert,  remember,  that  is  for  grandma  to  begin  her 
work  with.  It  would  so  oblige  me,  madam,  if  you  could 
have  the  shawl  done  by  Christmas." 

The  old  lady  broke  into  a  pleasant  little  laugh.  Little 
Joseph,  who  had  been  listening  greedily,  pulled  at  her 
dress  and  whispered : 

«  Grandma !  Grandma !  Can  I  have  something  now?' 
"Yes,  dear,  yea!  only  wait  a  minute." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN'S.          35 

"But  I  am  tired  of  waiting,  grandma." 

"Hush,  darling,  hush!" 

Joseph  nestled  down  to  his  old  place,  and,  half  hid 
den  by  his  grandma's  garments,  watched  the  stranger 
with  his  great,  bright  eyes,  eager  to  have  him  gone. 

The  young  man  saw  something  of  this ;  but  he  had 
never  in  his  life  encountered  absolute  want,  and  could 
not  entirely  comprehend  its  cravings. 

"Let  us  see  about  the  colors,"  he  said,  approaching 
the  grandmother.  "  White,  with  a  scarlet  border,  just  a 
pretty  fleece  of  soft,  bright  wool  turned  into  lace." 

"I  know,  I  know!"  said  the  old  woman,  nodding 
pleasantly.  "You  shall  see;  you  shall  see." 

"Now,  that  this  is  settled,"  said  the  young  man,  bal 
ancing  his  hat  in  one  hand  with  hesitation,  "  we  must 
have  a  consultation,  my  mother  and  I,  about  providing 
something  a  little  more  permanent." 

"You  are  kind,  very  kind,  sir,"  said  the  old  lady, 
smoothing  the  kerchief  over  her  bosom,  with  a  soft 
sweep  of  both  hands.  "  When  my  son  comes  home 
from  the  war,  he  will  thank  you.  Anna,  there,  don't 
exactly  know  how  to  do  it ;  and  I  am  an  old-fashioned 
lady,  fast  turning  back  to  my  place  among  the  children  ; 
but  my  son,  her  father,  you  know,  is  a  very  smart  man." 

"  And  brave  as  a  lion,"  shouted  little  Joseph,  from 
behind  the  shelter  of  his  grandmother's  garments. 

"  Hurra !  so  he  is  !  They  made  him  a  corporal  the 
first  thing  they  did.  By-and-by  he's  going  to  be  a  lieu 
tenant.  Then,  won't  we  live  !  Well,  I  reckon  not ;  oh, 
no !"  responded  the  larger  boy. 

"Robert!  Robert!"  said  the  sister,  in  gentle  reproof. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,  Anna ;  can't  for  the  life  of  me. 
Beg  the  gentleman's  pardon  all  the  same,  though." 


36         THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

"  Don't  Tisk  pardons  of  mo.  I  rather  like  it,  my  fine 
fellow,"  answered  Savage.  "  But  there  has  been  a  great 
battle ;  I  hope  no  bad  news  has  reached  you  !" 

"  I  do  not  know.  That  is  what  makes  us  so  anxious. 
If  I  could  but  see  a  paper." 

"  Go  and  get  one  this  moment,"  said  Savage,  thrust 
ing  some  currency  into  Robert's  hand. 

The  boy  darted  off  like  an  arrow ;  they  could  hardly 
hear  his  feet  touch  the  stairs.  Directly  he  came  back 
again,  breathless  and  pale,  with  the  paper  open  in  his 
hand,  which  he  searched  eagerly  for  news. 

"  They  have  been  in  the  midst  of  it,"  he  cried.  The 
regiment  is  all  cut  up;  but!  don't  see  his  name  in  the 
list.  Dear,  how  I  wish  the  paper  would  hold  still. 
Anna,  you  try."  The  girl  held  out  her  hand,  but  it 
shook  like  an  aspen  leaf;  and  Savage  took  the  paper. 

"  What  is  your  father's  name  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Robert  Burns." 

"I'm  named  after  him,  I  am,"  cried  Robert,  with  an 
outburst  of  pride. 

Savage  ran  his  eyes  hastily  down  the  list  of  killed. 
The  old  woman  left  her  chair  and  crept  toward  him, 
white  and  still ;  while  little  Joseph  crept  after,  forget 
ting  his  hunger  in  the  general  interest.  No  one  spoke ; 
there  was  not  a  full  breath  drawn.  Savage  looked  up 
from  the  paper,  and  saw  those  wild,  questioning  eyes, 
those  white  faces,  turned  upon  him  with  an  intensity 
that  made  his  heart  swell. 

"  His  name  is  not  here,"  he  said. 

Dry  sobs  broke  from  the  women  ;  but  Robert  shouted 
out,  "Glory!  glory!"  And  little  Joseph  laughed, 
clapping  his  pale  hands. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          37 

"But  the  wounded,"  whispered  Anna;  "look  there." 

"All  right,  so  far,"  answered  Savage,  running  his' 
eyes  rapidly  down  the  list.  "  There  is  no  Burns  here." 

The  old  woman  dropped  into  her  chair,  and  gathering 
little  Joseph  to  her  bosom,  covered  his  face  with  gentle 
kisses;  while  Robert  half  strangled  his  sister  with 
caresses,  and  shook  hands  vigorously  with  Mr.  Savage, 
who  was  rather  astonished  to  find  his  eyes  full  of  tears, 
which  threw  the  whole  room  into  a  haze. 

"Don't  forget  to  come  in  the  morning,"  he  said,  turn 
ing  toward  the  door. 

"  Of  course  I  wont,"  answered  the  boy,  following  his 
new  friend  into  the  passage  ;  but  that  yellow  chap,  will 
he  let  me  in  ?" 

"  Come  and  see.  But,  Robert,  I  say,  you  and  I  must 
be  friends — fast  friends,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  when  we  know  each  other  through  and  through. 
But  I'm  in  charge  here  when  father's  gone,  and  haven't 
much  time  for  any  thing  else.  Good-by,  sir;  I'll  be  on 
hand  in  the  mornino-  » 

C3 

Savage  went  away,  with  his  mind  and  heart  full  of  the 
scene  he  had  just  witnessed.  How  poor  they  were  ? 
What  barren  destitution  surrounded  those  two  women : 
yet,  how  lady-like  they  seemed.  There  was  nothing  in 
their  poverty  to  revolt  his  taste,  fastidious  as  it  was. 
Neat  and  orderly  poverty  carried  a  certain  dignity  with 
it.  He  thoroughly  respected  these  two  women;  their 
condition  appealed  to  every  manly  feeling  in  his  nature. 
Though  distrustful  from  habit  and  education,  he  had 
faith  in  them,  and  went  home  full  of  generous  impulses, 
wondering  how  he  could  do  them  good.  Meantime,' 
Robert  went  back  to  the  room,  radiant. 


38          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Here,"  he  said,  thrusting  a  bun  into  Joseph's  hand, 
"break  it  in  two,  and  give  grandma  half;  Anna  and  I 
will  wait  awhile.  Here  is  the  money,  sister ;  I  got  it 
changed  at  the  baker's,  where  they  wouldn't  trust  us  a 
loaf  yesterday.  You  didn't  know  it,  but  I  asked  'em. 
Didn't  their  eyes  open  when  I  took  out  that  bill.  How 
does  the  bun  taste,  Josey  ?  Why,  if  the  fellow  hasn't 
finished  up  his  half  already.  Here,  give  me  back  some 
of  that  money ;  I'm  off  for  a  supper.  There  is  three 
sticks  of  wood  in  the  closet,  and  a  little  charcoal ;  just 
throw  them  on  the  fire,  and  let  'em  blaze  away ;  who 
cares  for  the  expense !  Hurra !" 

Away  the  boy  went,  bounding  down  the  stairs  like  a 
young  deer,  leaving  Anna  and  the  grandmother  in  a 
state  of  unusual  cheerfulness.  They  raked  up  the  em 
bers  into  a  little  'glowing  pile,  crossed  the  wood  over 
them,  and  filled  the  tea-kettle  as  a  pleasant  preliminary. 
The  hearth,  clean  and  cold  before,  was  swept  again ; 
and  as  the  darkness  closed  in,  the  end  of  a  candle  was 
brought  forth  and  lighted,  revealing  the  desolate  room 
in  gleams  of  dull  light,  that  struggled  hard  against  the 
shadows. 

"  How  pleasant  it  is,"  murmured  the  old  lady,  leaning 
toward  the  fire,  and  rubbing  her  withered  hands  over 
each  other.  "  See,  darling,  how  the  fire-light  dances  on 
the  hearth.  Hark,  now !  the  kettle  is  beginning  to  sing  ! 
That  means  supper,  Joseph." 

"  Are  you  hungry,  grandma  ?"  asked  the  boy,  looking 
up  to  that  kind,  old  face. 
"Yes,  dear,  a  little." 
"  But  you  wouldn't  eat  a  bit  of  the  bun." 
"  That  was  because  I  liked  to  see  you  eat  it." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         39 

"  Oh,  how  nice  it  was  !  When  will  Robert  come  back 
with  more  ?" 

"  Here  I  am !"  cried  Robert,  dashing  against  the  door, 
and  forcing  it  open  with  his  foot.  "  Here  I  am,  with 
lots  of  good  things.  There's  a  ring  of  sausages.  Here's 
bread  and  butter,  and  a  little  tea  for  grandma,  bless  her 
darling  old  heart ;  and  just  one  slice  of  sponge-cake  for 
Anna — cake  is  awful  dear  now,  or  I'd  have  got  enough 
to  treat  all  round.  There's  a  paper  of  sugar,  and — and 
here  they  go  all  on  the  table  at  once !  Sort  'em  out, 
Anna,  while  I  run  for  a  pint  of  milk,  and  an  apple  to 
roast  for  grandma.  I  forgot  that.  How  she  does  like 
roasted  apples.  Get  out  the  frying-pan,  and  bustle 
about,  all  of  you.  Isn't  that  young  Mr.  Savage  a  splendid 
fellow  ?  How  I'd  like  to  be  a  ctrummer-boy  in  his  regi 
ment.  Hurry  up,  Anna,  I'm  after  the  milk !" 

Away  the  boy  went  again,  with  a  little  earthen  pitcher 
in  his  hands,  happy  as  a  lark. 

Anna  Burns  brought  forth  the  frying-pan,  placed  the 
links  of  sausages  in  it,  and  surrendered  them  to  grandma, 
Who  smiled  gently  on  little  Joseph  as  they  began  to 
crisp,  and  swell,  and  send  forth  an  appetizing  flavor  into 
the  room.  The  kettle,  too,  sent  forth  gushes  of  warm 
steam,  hissing  and  singing  like  some  riotous,  living  thing 
held  in  bondage.  Altogether,  the  little  room  grew 
warmer  and  pleasanter  every  moment ;  and  the  bright 
face  of  Anna  Burns  grew  radiant  as  she  moved  about  it, 
setting  out  the  table  with  a  few  articles  of  China  left 
from  their  former  comfortable  opulence,  and  spreading 
it  with  a  tablecloth  of  fine  damask,  so  worn  and  thin, 
that  the  pawnbrokers  had  rejected  it. 

"  Here  we  go !"  cried  Robert,  coming  in  with  the  milk. 


40 

"  Hurra !  all  ready,  and  the  sausages  hissing !  That's 
the  time  o'  day !  Just  get  down  that  China  teapot, 
Anna,  and  let  grandma  make  the  tea.  There,  Joe,  is  an 
apple  for  you  ;  I  reckon  you  can  eat  it  without  roasting. 
I'll  put  one  down  for  grandma.  Don't  she  look  jolly, 
with  the  fire-light  dancing  over  her  ?  Come,  now,  all's 
ready ;  bring  up  the  chairs,  Josey,  that's  your  part  of 
the  job." 

Little  Joseph  fell  to  work  with  great  spirit,  and 
dragged  up  the  chairs,  while  Anna  was  dishing  the  sau 
sages  and  cutting  the  bread.  Then  the  old  woman  drew 
up  to  her  place  nearest  the  fire,  with  the  teapot  before 
her,  ready  to  do  the  honors  ;  and,  with  her  hands  folded 
in  meek  thankfulness  on  the  table,  asked  a  blessing  on 
the  only  food  they  had  tasted  in  two  days. 

Well,  God  did  bless  that  food,  common  as  it  was  ;  and 
no  Roman  feast,  where  libations  were  poured  out  to 
heathen  gods,  ever  tasted  sweeter  than  this  humble  meal. 
There  was  quite  a  jubilee  about  that  little,  pine  table ; 
and  the  old  lady,  who  sat  smiling  over  her  teacup,  was 
by  no  means  the  least  joyous  of  the  little  party.  As 
for  Robert,  he  came  out  famously;  talked  of  the  brave 
exploits  his  father  must  have  performed  in  battle  ;  told 
stories ;  got  up  once  or  twice  to  kiss  his  grandmother ; 
and,  altogether,  behaved  in  a  very  undignified  manner 
for  the  head  of  a  family,  as  he  proudly  proclaimed  him 
self.  Even  little  Joseph  came  out  of  his  natural  tim 
idity,  and  burst  into  shouts  of  childish  laughter  more 
than  once,  when  Robert  became  unusually  funny.  And 
as  for  Anna,  she  laughed,  and  smiled,  and  talked  that 
evening,  till  the  boys  fairly  left  their  half-empty  plates 
to  climb  on  her  chair  and  caress  her.  That  happy  sup- 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    o  u  r  n  A  N  s .          41 

per,  and  the  pleasant  evening  that  followed,  was  enough 
to  reconcile  one  with  poverty,  which,  after  all,  is  not  the 
greatest  evil  on  earth. 


CHAPTER  II. 

PREPARING   FOR   THE    FAIR. 

YOUNG  Savage  went  up  those  marble  steps  with  a 
light  heart  and  a  generous  purpose.  He  would  befriend 
this  unfortunate  family.  His  mother  should  help  him. 
That  girl,  with  the  bright,  brunette  face,  was  too  beauti 
ful  for  her  friendless  condition,  and  the  burden  of  those 
three  helpless  creatures  who  depended  on  her.  He 
could  not  get  her  picture,  as  she  stood  by  the  fireplace, 
out  of  his  mind. 

"Where  is  my  mother?"  he  inquired  of  the  servant, 
passing  him  at  the  door  with  a  light  step. 

"  Up  in  her  own  room,  sir.     She  has  just  come  in." 

Horace  made  his  way  up-stairs,  and  entered  one  of 
the  most  luxurious  rooms  of  the  noble  mansion,  in 
which  his  mother  was  sitting,  or,  rather,  lying,  with  her 
elbow  buried  in  the  satin  pillows  of  a  crimson  couch, 
and  her  foot  pressed  hard  upon  an  embroidered  ottoman. 
Horace  opened  the  door  without  noise,  and  walking 
across  a  carpet  soft  as  moss,  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  his 
mother's  couch. 

She  was  a  handsome  woman,  this  Mrs.  Savage — large, 
tall,  and  commanding.  It  was  easy  to  see  where  the 


42          THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS. 

young  man  got  those  fine,  grey  eyes,  and  brilliant  com 
plexion. 

"  Oh,  Horace !  I  am  glad  you  have  come !  Such  a 
clay  as  I  have  gone  through!"  cried  the  lady,  fluttering 
the  white  ribbons  of  her  pretty  dress  cap,  by  the  de 
spairing  shake  of  her  head.  "  Upon  my  word,  I  think 
those  women  will  be  the  death  of  me ;  such  selfishness  I 
such  egotism !" 

"  It  must  be  very  tiresome  ;  but  then  I  sometimes 
think  you  like  to  be  tired  out  on  such  occasions, 
mother." 

"  But  the  cause,  Horace,  the  great  cause  of  humanity. 
These  poor  soldiers  toiling  in  the  field,  suffering,  dying 

and    their   families.      It   is   enough   to   break   one's 

heart." 

Horace  looked  at  his  mother  in  her  costly  dress, 
trimmed  half  way  up  the  skirt  with  velvet,  and  lace,  and 
fancy  buttons,  the  cost  of  which  would  have  fed  old 
Mrs.  Burns  for  a  twelvemonth ;  and,  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life,  a  faint  idea  of  her  inconsistency  broke  upon 
his  filial  blindness.  The  very  point  lace  of  her  tiny  cap 
would  have  given  a  month  of  tolerable  comfort  to  the 
soldier's  orphans.  Yet,  with  all  this  wanton  finery  flut- 
•  tering  about  her,  the  woman  really  thought  herself  a 
most  charitable  person,  and  mourned  the  dead  and 
wounded  over  each  battle  right  regally,  under  moire 
antique  rippled  with  light,  like  a  cloud  in  a  thunder 
storm,  at  a  cost  of  some  ten  dollars  per  yard. 

"  But  it  is  of  no  use  dwelling  on  that  part  of  the  sub 
ject  ;  the  proper  course  is  to  find  a  remedy,  which  we 
have  done  in  this  fair.  I  tell  you,  Horace,  the  country 
can  produce  nothing  like  it.  It  will  be  superb.  The 


THE    SOLDIER'S    our  HANS.          43 

only  trouble  is  about  the  tableaux.  Every  lady  of  the 
committee  has  some  commonplace  daughter  that  she 
insists  on  crowding  into  the  foreground.  Thank  heaven, 
I  have  no  daughter  to  push  forward  after  this  coarse 
fashion.  There  is  Mrs.  Pope,  now,  insists  that  Amelia 
shall  stand  as  Rebecca,  in  the  great  Ivanhoe  tableau, 
when  her  eyes  are  a  greenish-blue,  and  her  hair  a  dull 
brown  ;  and  I  cannot  reasonably  object,  for  there  is  not 
a  passable  brunette  in  the  whole  company.  I  was  think 
ing  it  over  when  you  came  in.  The  whole  thing  will  be 
spoiled  for  want  of  a  proper  heroine." 

"Who  stands  as  Beatrice?"  asked  Horace,  with  the 
animation  of  a  new  idea. 

"Miss  Eustice,  of  course." 

"Why,  of  course?" 

"  Because  she  is  fair  as  a  lily,  blue-eyed,  and  so  ex 
quisitely  feminine  ;  and  for  another  reason." 

"  What  is  that,  mother  ?" 

"  You  are  to  stand  as  Ivanhoe." 

Horace  saw  the  way  open  by  which  his  idea  might  be 
worked  out  at  once,  and  it  must  be  confessed,  dealt 
rather  artfully  with  his  mother. 

"Not  with  an  ugly  Rebecca,  though.  I  could  not 
stand  that." 

"  But  how  can  it  be  helped  ?" 

"  Mother,  I  saw  by  accident,  this  evening,  the  very 
person  you  want — a  soldier's  daughter,  perfectly  lady 
like,  and  very  beautiful." 

"Of  the  right  type  of  beauty?  Would  she  make  a 
striking  contrast  to  my  favorite  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Sav 
age,  eagerly. 

"  No  contrast  could  be  more  decided." 


44          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"But  who  is  she?" 

"A  soldier's  daughter!" 

"  But  is  she  presentable  ?    Has  she  style,  education  ?" 

"  She  has  everything  that  goes  to  form  a  lovely  wo 
man,  I  should  say." 

"  Where  can  I  see  her  ?" 

"Perhaps  she  would  come  to  you." 

"It  is  a  bold  step;  but 'I  can  afford  that.  As  my 
protege,  they  will  not  dare  to  ask  questions.  Where 
does  the  girl  live  ?  Could  I  see  her  to-night,  or  early 
in  the  morning  ?  I  am  so  weary  now.  Upon  my  word, 
Horace,  you  have  helped  me  out  of  a  most  annoying 
dilemma.  To-morrow  morning,  before  breakfast,  I 
must  see  this  person.  What  is  her  name  ?" 

"Burns,  mother — Anna  Burns." 

"  Thank  you,  Horace.  Now,  another  thing.  We 
must  have  something  national,  patriotic,  and  all  that. 
A  soldier's  family,  for  instance ;  but  the  dresses  are  so 
plain  and  unbecoming,  that  our  young  ladies  fight  shy 
of  it.  Could  you  manage  something  of  the  kind  for  me  ?" 

Horace  thought  of  the  picture  he  had  seen  that  night, 
and  answered  that,  perhaps,  it  would  be  possible,  only 
the  whole  thing  must  be  managed  with  great  delicacy ; 
and  he,  as  a  gentleman,  must  not  be  supposed  to  inter 
fere  with  it.  His  mother  could  write  a  little  note  to  the 
young  person  who  had  already  done  work  for  her. 

"  For  me  ?  Anna  Burns  ?  It  must  have  been  for  the 
committee.  I  remember  no  such  person  ;  but  that  will 
be  an  opening.  Is  she  to  form  part  of  this  tableau, 
also?" 

"  The  principal  figure." 

"And  the  rest?" 


THE 

"  Two  children,  for  instance,  barefooted,  hungry,  and 
in  clothes  only  held  together  with  constant  mending." 

"Excellent." 

"And  an  old  woman  ?" 

"  Better  and  better  !   Nice  and  picturesque,  of  course." 

"Neat  and  dainty,  with  the  sweetest  old  face." 

"It  will  be  perfect!  Oh,  Horace!  what  a  treasure 
you  are  to  me.  Now,  turn  down  the  gas,  dear.  You 
have  set  my  mind  at  rest,  and  I  mean  to  go  to  sleep  till 
your  father  comes  home.  Here,  just  put  my  cap  on  that 
marble  Sappho,  and  don't  crush  it.  Doesn't  she  look 
lovely,  the  darling !  like  the  ghost  of  a  poetess  coming 
back  to  life  ?  Now  draw  the  curtains  ;  give  me  a  quiet 
kiss,  and  go  away  to  your  club,  or  the  opera,  or  any 
where.  Only  be  sure  to  have  the  girl  here  in  time." 

Early  the  next  morning,  while  Anna  was  dividing  her 
little  store  of  money,  and  apportioning  it  toward  the 
payment  of  various  small  debts,  she  received  a  note, 
asking  her  to  call  on  Mrs.  Savage  at  once,  if  quite  con 
venient.  Anna  was  too  grateful  for  delay.  So,  putting 
on  her  shawl  and  a  straw  bonnet,  kept  neatly  for  great 
occasions,  she  was  on  the  marble  steps,  almost  as  soon 
as  the  messenger  who  brought  her  note. 

Mrs.  Savage  was  taking  a  solitary  breakfast  in  her 
own  room.  The  sunlight  came  in  softly  through  the 
lace  curtains,  as  if  trembling  through  flakes  of  snow, 
and  turned  the  waves  of  maize-colored  damask,  that 
half  enfolded  them  in,  to  a  rich  gold  color. 

Mrs.  Savage  was  seated  in  a  Turkish  easy-chair,  cush 
ioned  with  delicate  blue,  and  spotted  with  the  gold-work 
of  Damascus.  She  wore  a  morning-dress  of  dove-colored 
merino,  and  knots  of  pink  ribbon  gave  lightness  and 


46          THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

bloom  to  her  morning-cap  of  frost-like  tulle.  She  looked 
up  as  Anna  entered  the  room,  and  her  whole  face 
brightened.  No  peach  ever  had  so  rich  a  bloom  as  that 
which  broke  over  the  girl's  cheek  ;  no  statue  in  her  bou- 
do^r  could  boast  more  perfect  symmetry  tUan  that  form. 
Walter  Scott  had  no  finer  ideal  when  he  drew  that  mas 
ter-piece  of  all  his  women,  Rebecca. 

"  Come  here,  my  child,  and  sit  down  close  by  me ;  I 
want  to  look  at  you,"  said  the  lady,  beaming  with  satis 
faction.  "  You  have  been  doing  work  for  us,  I  hear." 

"Yes,  madam,"  answered  Anna,  with  a  grateful  out 
burst,  "  yes,  madam  ;  thank  you  for  it." 

"  Oh !  it  is  nothing  but  our  duty  !"  replied  the  lady, 
forgetting  to  ask  if  the  work  had  been  paid  for.  "All 
our  efforts  are  in  behalf  of  the  poor  soldiers'  families. 
Now  I  want  you  to  help  us  in  another  way." 

«  I  wiH — I  will  in  any  way  !" 

"  We  shall  open  the  fair  with  tableaux — a  room  has 
been  built  on  purpose.  Of  course,  the  charge  will  be 
extra ;  the  pictures  will  be  beautiful — you  must  stand 
for  two  of  them." 

"I,  madam?" 

"  Certainly  ;  for  you  are  really  beautiful.  By-the-way, 
have  you  breakfasted  ?  Here  is  a  cup  of  coffee  ;  drink 
it,  while  I  talk  to  you." 

Anna  took  the  cup  of  delicate  Sevres  china,  and 
drank  its  contents,  standing  by  the  table. 

"  You  have  a  grandmother,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
I  hear?"  observed  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  yes  1  the  dearest  in  the  world." 

"And  some  brothers  ?" 

"  Yes,  madam !" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          47 

"  Picturesque,  I  am  told  ;  something  like  boys  in  the 
pictures  of  that  delicious  old  Spanish  painter.  We 
must  have  them,  too." 

"What!  my  brothers?" 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  and  the  old  lady.  That  will  be  our  grand 
effort,  and  our  secret,  too.  Not  wanting  outside  help, 
we  can  keep  it  for  a  surprise.  Be  ready  when  you  are 
called.  I  think  they  will  come  off  on  Monday.  Never 
mind  the  costumes ;  that  dress  will  do  very  well  for  the 
family  tableau.  As  for  Rebecca,  I  will  take  care  of  her. 
My  son  says  the  boys  and  that  old  woman  are  perfect. 
Don't  change  them  in  the  least ;  it  would  spoil  every 
thing.  Oh !  Mrs.  Leeds,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Late 
am  I — the  committee  waiting?" 

This  last  speech  was  made  to  a  little  dumpty  lady, 
who  came  fluttering  into  the  room  unannounced,  with 
both  her  hands  held  out,  and  an  important  look  of  busi 
ness  in  her  face.  The  ladies  kissed  each  other  impres 
sively  ;  then  Mrs.  Savage  glided  up  to  Anna  and  whis 
pered, 

"  Run  away  now.  She  mustn't  get  a  good  look  at 
you  on  any  account.  Don't  mind  turning  your  back  on 
us.  Good-morning.  Remember,  I  depend  on  you  as  a 
soldier's  daughter;  it  is  your  duty." 

Anna  went  out  in  some  confusion,  hardly  knowing 
whether  she  had  been  well  received  or  not.  Coming  up 
the  broad  stair-case,  she  met  young  Savage,  and  he 
stopped  to  speak  with  her. 

"  You  have  seen  my  mother  ?"  he  said,  gently. 

"Yes." 

"And  will  oblige  her,  I  hope  ?" 

"  How  can  I  refuse  ?" 


48  THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

11  That  is  generous.     I  thank  yon." 

"  It  is  I  who  should  give  the  thanks,"  answered  Anna 
with  a  tremble  of  gratitude  in  her  voice. 

Horace  smiled,  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  not  let  us  do  enough  for  any 
claim  to  thanks,"  he  said.  "  But  do  not  forget  to  send 
that  fine  little  fellow  after  my  handkerchiefs.  I  shall 
want  them." 

Anna  promised  that  Robert  should  be  punctual,  and 
went  away  so  happy,  that  the  very  air  seemed  to  carry 
her  forward. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  from  that,  close 
upon  evening,  she  stood  in  Mrs.  Savage's  boudoir,  again 
contrasting  its  luxurious  belongings  with  her  simple 
dress.  Mrs.  Savage  was  benign  as  ever.  She  had 
driven  her  enemy  out  of  the  Ivanhoe  tableau ;  and  the 
triumph  filled  her  with  exultation.  From  the  boudoir 
Anna-was  swept  off  to  the  temporary  buildings  erected 
for  the  great  fair,  hurried  through  a  labyrinth  of  fes 
tooned  arches,  loaded  tables,  lemonade  fountains,  and 
segar  stands,  into  a  dressing-room  swarming  with  young 
ladies,  who  took  no  more  heed  of  her  than  if  she  had 
been  a  lay-figure.  Mrs.  Savage  was  ubiquitous  that 
evening.  She  posed  characters,  arranged  draperies, 
grouped  historical  events,  and  exhibited  wonderful 
generalship ;  while  Anna  stood  in  a  remote  part  of  the 
room,  looking  on  anxious  for  the  coming  of  her  grand 
mother,  and  the  two  boys,  who  were  to  find  their  own 
way  to  the  fair  at  a  later  hour. 

The  old  lady  came  in  at  last  with  her  hood  on,  and 
wrapped  in  a  soft,  warm  blanket-shawl,  which  some  one, 
she  hadn't  the  least  idea  who,  had  sent  to  her  just  before 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          49 

she  started.  Alone  ?  no,  indeed;  she  did  not  come  alone. 
Young  Mr.  Savage  had  happened  to  call  in  just  as  she 
was  ready,  and  offered  to  show  her  the  way.  He  had 
admired  her  shawl  so  much,  and  didn't  think  the  little 
scarlet  stripe  at  all  too  much  for  her,  which  she  was 
glad  of ;  for  it  would  be  so  much  brighter  for  Anna 
when  they  took  turn  and  turn  about  wearing  it.  No, 
no,  it  could  not  have  been  Mr.  Savage  who  sent  it,  he 
was  so  much  surprised.  The  boys,  oh !  they  were  on 
the  way.  Robert  would  take  care  of  his  brother,  no 
fear  about  that.  But  the  fair,  wasn't  it  lovely?  She 
was  so  grateful  to  Mrs.  Savage  for  thinking  of  her  and 
the  boys  ;  the  very  sight  would  drive  them  wild.  Here 
Anna  was  carried  away  from  her  grandmother,  and 
seized  upon  by  two  dressing-maids,  who  transformed  her 
into  the  most  lovely  Jewess  that  eyes  ever  beheld  in  less 
than  no  time.  Young  Savage  was  called  out  from  a 
neighboring  dressing-room,  by  his  mother,  to  admire 
her ;  and  his  superb  dress  seemed,  like  her  own,  a  mira 
cle.  The  surprise  and  glory  of  it  all  gave  her  cheeks 
the  richness  of  ripe  peaches,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
shy  joy.  It  seemed  like  fairy-land. 

But  the  children,  where  were  they  ?  Amid  all  the  ex 
citement,  she  found  this  question  uppermost  in  her 
heart.  Poor  little  fellows  !  What  if  they  got  lost,  or 
failed  to  find  an  entrance  to  the  fair  ?  She  whispered 
these  anxieties  to  Savage,  who  promptly  took  off  his 
costume  and  went  in  search  of  them,  blaming  himself  a 
little  for  having  left  them  behind. 

The  little  fellows  were,  indeed,  rather  in  want  of  a 
friend.  They  had  been  for  days  in  a  whirl  of  excite 
ment  about  the  fair.  More  than  once  Robert  had  wan- 
3 


50          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

dered  off  toward  the  building,  and  reconnoitered  it  on  all 
sides ;  he  had  caught  glimpses  of  evergreens  wreathed 
with  a  world  of  flowers  ;  had  seen  whole  loads  of  toys 
carried  in,  and  made  himself  generally  familiar  with  the 
place.  He  had  been  very  mournful  when  Mr.  Savage 
went  off  with  his  grandmother,  and  protested  stoutly 
that  he  could  find  the  way  for  Joseph  anywhere,  and 
would  be  on  hand  for  the  picture  in  plenty  of  time  ;  and 
to  this  end  he  set  off  about  dusk,  leading  his  little  bro 
ther  by  the  hand,  resolved  to  give  him  a  wonderful  treat 
in  the  fair  before  the  pictures  came  on,  which  he  could 
not  understand,  and  was  rather  afraid  of.  So  the  two 
hurried  along,  shabby  and  ill-clad  as  children  could  be, 
but  happy  as  lords,  notwithstanding  their  naked  feet. 
It  seemed  to  them  as  if  they  were  going  direct  to  Pa 
radise,  where  Anna  and  the  old  grandmother  were  ex 
pecting  them.  They  reached  the  entrance  of  the  fair, 
and  were  eagerly  pressing  in,  when  a  man  caught  Ro 
bert  rudely  by  the  shoulder,  gave  him  a  slightly  vicious 
shake,  and  demanded  his  ticket. 

The  ticket  ?  mercy  upon  him  !  he  had  left  it  at  home, 
lying  on  the  table.  lie  wrung  himself  away  from  the  harsh 
hand  pressed  on  his  shoulder,  and  darted  off,  calling  on 
little  Joseph  to  follow  him.  Joseph  obeyed,  crying  all 
the  way  with  such  sharp  disappointment  as  only  a  sensi 
tive  child  can  feel.  Robert  darted  up-stairs,  and  met 
Joseph  half  way  up  with  the  ticket  in  his  hand. 

"Come,"  he  cried,  brandishing  it  above  his  head; 
"  never  say  die !  We're  time  enough  yet." 

But  Joseph  had  been  sorely  disappointed  once,  and 
was  down-hearted  enough.  He  had  no  hopes  of  getting 
in,  and  one  rebuff  had  frightened  him  so  much  tfcat  he 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         51 

longed  to  run  home  and  hide  himself.  But  Robert  was 
not  to  be  daunted.  He  threw  one  arm  over  his  brother's 
shoulder  and  struck  into  a  run,  carrying  the  timid  child 
with  him  like  a  whirlwind.  At  last  they  came  to  the 
entrance-door  of  the  fair  again,  and  then  a  panic  seized 
on  Robert,  also.  What  if  it  were  too  late  ?  What  if 
the  ticket  was  not  good  ?  What  if  the  man  drove  him 
away  again  ?  Joseph,  more  timid  still,  drew  close  to 
him  and  hung  back,  afraid  to  advance,  and  equally  afraid 
to  leave  Robert  and  go  back. 

"Let's  go  ahead,"  cried  Robert,  all  at  once,  holding 
out  his  ticket  and  making  ready  to  advance.  "  Who's 
afraid  !  Keep  close  to  me,  Josey,  and  never  mind  if  the 
fellow  is  cross." 

Still  Joseph  hung  back. 
"Hurra!" 

This  came  in  a  low  shout  from  Robert,  who  saw  young 
Savage  coming  toward  them.  He  had  been  a  little  way 
up  the  street  watching  for  their  approach.  "All  right, 
my  boys,"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  ringing  voice,  that  made 
little  Joseph's  heart  leap  with  joy  ;  "  grandmother  is 
waiting  for  you.  Come  along  !" 

The  next  moment  Robert  and  his  little  brother  be 
lieved  themselves  absolutely  in  Paradise. 


52          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 
CHAPTER   III. 

THE    OLD    MAID. 

"Miss  ELIZA?" 

"  Well,  my  sweet  child  ?" 

"  Would  you  lend  me  yowr  pearls  for  this  one  night?" 

"My  pearls,  darling?  My  pearls?  Oh,  Georgie ! 
you  cannot  understand  the  associations  connected  with 
these  ornaments— the  painful,  the  thrilling  associa 
tions  1" 

«  Don't !  Pray,  don't  I  When  you  clasp  your  hands 
and  roll  up  your  eyes  in  that  fashion,  it  gives  me  a  chill 
—it  does,  indeed!"  cried  Georgiana  Halstead,  really 
distressed ;  for  when  Miss  Eliza  went  into  a  fit  of  senti 
ment,  it  was  apt  to  go  through  many  variations  of  sighs, 
smiles,  and  tears,  till  it  ended  in  hysterics. 

"A  chill,  Georgiana?  What  is  a  single  chill,  com 
pared  to  the  agonies  of  memory  that  haunt  this  bosom  ?" 
cried  Miss  Eliza,  pressing  one  large  and  rather  bony 
hand  on  that  portion  of  her  tall  person,  for  which  her 
dress-maker  deserved  the  greatest  credit.  "  Oh,  child, 
if  you  had  but  once  listened  to  my  history  1" 

"Couldn't  think  of  it!  The  first  ten  words  would 
break  my  heart  into  ten  thousand  splinters.  Besides,  I 
never  could  endure  mysteries,"  cried  the  young  lady, 
letting  down  a  superb  mop  of  yellow  hair,  which  shim 
mered  like  sunbeams  over  her  shoulders,  and  posing 
herself  before  the  mirror,  as  it  revealed  her  lovely  per- 

son  from  head  to  foot. 

"My  life,"  moaned  Aunt  Eliza,  "has  both  a  mystery 

and  a  history,  which  will  be  found  written  on  my  soul, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          53 

when  this  poor  body,  once  so  tenderly  beloved,  is  laid 
in  the  dust." 

"Under  the  daisies  would  be  prettier,  I  think,"  re 
plied  Georgiana,  braiding  her  hair  with  breathless  haste, 
in  two  gorgeous  bands,  while  Miss  Eliza  was  talking. 
"  A  great  deal  prettier.  There,  now,  tell  me  if  you  like 
this." 

The  fair  girl  had  woven  the  heavy  braids  of  hair 
around  her  queenly  head,  forming  a  coronet  of  living 
gold  above  a  forehead  white  as  snow,  on  which  the  deli 
cate  veins  might  be  traced  like  blue  shadows.  "  This  is 
the  way  I  intend  to  wear  it,  with  the  garland  of  pearls 
in  front.  Won't  it  be  lovely?" 

"No!"  said  Miss  Eliza,  shaking  her  head.  "There 
was  a  time " 

"Yes,  yes!  I  understand!  The  skirt  will  be  white 
satin,  the  tunic  blue  velvet,  with  a  border  of  ermine  so 
deep." 

Miss  Eliza  came  out  of  her  own  history  long  enough 
to  notice  that  the  ermine  border  would  be  at  least  six 
inches  deep ;  then  she  retired  into  herself  again,  and 
sighed  heavily ;  and,  dropping  her  head  on  one  hand, 
fell  into  a  mournful  reverie. 

"  Shall  I  wear  a  chain,  or  a  collar  of  gold  ?"  said 
Georgiana. 

"  Yes,  it  was  one  chain  of  flowers,"  murmured  Miss 
Eliza,  exploring  her  life  backward.  "  Such  flowers  as 
only  grow  on  the  banks  of  Eden." 

"  I  am  afraid  Rowena  could  have  sported  nothing  but 
wild  flowers— a  garland  of  hawthorn-blossoms,  or  a 
bouquet  of  primroses,"  said  Georgiana,  crossing  some 


54    THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 

scarlet  ribbons  sandal-wise  over  her  ankles,  and  regard 
ing  the  effect  with  great  satisfaction. 

"  Rowena  !  Rowena  !  I  mentioned  no  such  name. 
Indeed,  I  never  do  mention  names,"  cried  Miss  Eliza, 
arousing  herself,  and  setting  upright.  "  Heaven  forbid 
that  I  should  ever  be  left  to  mention  names." 

The  old  maid,  for  such  I  am  pained  to  say,  Miss  Eliza 
Halstead  was,  arose  solemnly,  as  she  said  this,  and 
waving  her  niece  off  with  a  sweep  of  both  hands  worthy 
of  a  wind-mill  in  full  motion,  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room  with  long  and  measured  steps,  that  gave 
a  tragic  air  to  the  scene. 

"How  about  the  pearls?"  questioned  Georgie,  tying 
the  scarlet  ribbon  in  a  dainty  little  bow.  "  We  havn't 
much  time.  It  is  getting  dark,  now,  and  one  doesn't 
step  out  of  a  Waverly  novel,  in  full  rig,  without  lots  of 
preparation.  Mine  is  the  fourth  tableau." 

"  Tableau  ?  Ah,  yes  !  I  remember  you  were  going  to 
stand  up  as " 

"As  Rowena,  in  Ivanhoe." 

"  Rowena  I  My  dear  child,  you  are  not  tall  enough 
by  five  inches,  and  lack  the  proper  dignity.  Mrs. 
Savage  must  have  done  this — she  always  was  my 
enemy  from  her  girlhood  ;  that  is— that  is,  from  the  first 
time  I  dawned  upon  her  life.  Let  me  ask  you  a  ques 
tion,  Georgiana." 

"  Be  quick,  then,  please  ;  for  I  want  the  pearls." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Savage  aware  that  I  was  an  inmate  of 
this  house  when  she  selected  you  to  represent  the  most 
queenly  character  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  novel.  I  par 
ticularly  wish  to  know." 

"  I I  should  think  it  very  likely,"  answered  Georgi- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          55 

ana,  driving  a  laugh  from  her  lips  which  broke  from 
her  eyes  in  a  gush  of  mischief.  "It  is  now  six  months 
since  you  came  here." 

"  She  knew  it,  and  yet  invited  another.  This  is  life 
. — this  is  ingratitude !  Has  she  no  remembrance  of  the 

time  when  we  two But  why  should  I  dwell  011 

that  painful  epoch  of  my  life  ?  Georgiana,  you  shall 
have  the  pearls.  Let  me  complete  this  soul's  martyr 
dom.  Where  is  my  trunk?" 

"In  the  store-room,  I  think." 

"  There  again !  Relics  of  the  past  huddled  together 
in  a  common  store-room — and  such  relics!" 

" Nothing  ever  was  more  beautiful!"  said  the  young 
lady,  proceeding  with  her  toilet;  "only  do  bring  them 
along!" 

Miss  Eliza  stalked  out  of  the  room  with  a  key  grasped 
in  her  hands,  measuring  off  her  steps  like  Juno  in  a  fit 
of  heathenish  indignation.  She  returned  directly,  bear 
ing  in  her  hand  a  faded  red-morocco  case,  the  size  of  a 
soup-plate,  and  considerably  battered  at  the  edges. 
Seating  herself  in  an  arm-chair,  she  opened  the  case, 
and  began  to  shake  her  head  lugubriously  over  the 
snow-white  pearls  that  gleamed  upon  her  from  their 
neat  purple  satin.  Georgiana  looked  eagerly  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Eliza,  I  didn't  begin  to  know  how  beauti 
ful  they  were:  so  large,  so  full  of  milky  light!  No 
wonder  you  prize  them  !" 

"Alas!  it  is  not  their  beauty,"  sighed  Miss  Eliza. 
"  Here,  take  them,  child  ;  they  were  intended  for  a  more 
queenly  brow,  but  I  yield  to  destiny." 

Miss  Eliza  rendered  up  the  case  as  if  it  had  contained 


56  THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

flowers  for  a  coffin,  shrouded  her  features  in  a  corner 
of  the  lace  anti-macassar  which  covered  the  maroon 
cushions  of  her  easy-chair,  and  allowed  a  touching  little 
sob  to  break  from  her  lips. 

"  Oh  !  the  associations  that  are  connected  with  those 
ornaments  1"  she  moaned. 

f:  "  Now  I  will  render  them  doubly  dear,"  laughed  the 
young  girl,  laying  the  white  spray  on  the  golden  braids 
of  her  hair,  and  moving  her  head  about  like  a  bird 
pluming  itself. 

"  Destiny  !  destiny!"  murmured  Aunt  Eliza. 

"Beautiful!  beautiful!"  responded  Georgia;  and, 
running  into  a  neighboring  dressing-closet,  she  came 
forth  a  lady  of  the  olden  times,  that  might  have  danced 
with  the  lion-hearted  Richard. 

Aunt  Eliza  gave  one  glance  at  the  radiant  young 
creature,  rose  from  her  chair,  and  left  the  room,  wring 
ing  her  hands  like  a  tragedy  queen. 

Georgiana  took  no  heed,  but  framed  her  pretty 
image  in  the  glass,  where  she  looked  like  a  picture  to 
which  Titian  had  given  the  draperies,  and  Rubens  the 
flesh-tints.  As  she  stood  admiring  herself,  as  any 
pretty  woman  might,  the  door  opened,  and  a  stately  old 
woman  entered,  rustling  across  the  floor  in  a  heavy 
black  silk,  and  with  quantities  of  white  tulle  softening 
her  face  and  bosom. 

"  Oh,  Madam  Halstead !  I  am  so  glad  you've  come  1 
Tell  me  if  this  is  not  perfect  ?" 

"I  never  think  you  otherwise  than  perfect,  child — 
who  could  ?"  replied  the  sweet,  low  voice  of  the  old  lady. 
"  The  very  sight  of  you  makes  me  young  again." 

"  How  handsome  you  must  have  been,"  cried  Georgie, 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          57 

throwing  one  arm  around  the  old  lady,  and  patting  the 
soft  cheek,  which  had  a  touch  of  bloom  on  it,  with  her 
dimpled  hand.  "  How  handsome  you  are  now!" 

The  old  lady  shook  her  head,  and  a  faint  blush  stole 
over  her  face,  and  lost  itself  under  the  shadows  of  her 
silver-white  hair. 

"  Yes,  dear,  some  few  who  loved  me  used  to  think  so," 
said  the  old  lady. 

"  Here  comes  Miss  Eliza,"  cried  Georgiana,  seizing 
upon  a  large  cloak  of  black  velvet,  in  which  she  envel 
oped  her  dress,  and  twisting  a  fleece-like  nubia  over  her 
head,  cried,  "  Good-night  1  Good-night !  Just  one  kiss  I 
Good-night !" 

Away  the  bright  young  creature  went,  sweeping  out 
of  the  room,  and  down  the  stair  case,  like  a  tropical 
bird  with  all  its  plumage  in  motion. 

"  Good-night !"  she  repeated  to  Miss  Eliza,  who 
loomed  upon  her  from  the  extremity  of  the  upper  hall. 

"  Don't  be  too  late  ;  I'll  send  the  carriage  back  !" 

With  a  toss  of  her  lofty  head,  and  a  wave  of  her  hand, 
Miss  Eliza  seemed  to  sweep  the  young  creature  out  of 
her  presence ;  then  she  entered  the  room  where  old 
Mrs.  Halstead  was  sitting  in  the  easy-chair  which  her 
daughter  had  so  lately  abandoned,  and  paused  inside 
the  door,  gazing  upon  that  calm  face  with  a  look  of 
mournful  reproach. 

"  Thus,  ever  thus,  do  I  find  the  place  I  have  left 
filled,"  she  said ;  "  but  my  own  mother,  this  is  too 
much!" 

"  Is  it  that  you  want  the  seat,  Eliza,"  said  the  old 
lady,  gently  lifting  herself  from  the  chair;  "take  it,  I 
have  rested  long  enough." 


58          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Oh !  my  beloved  parent,  that  you  should  make  this 
sacrifice  for  me  !"  sighed  Miss  Eliza,  dropping  into  the 
chair.  "  I  know  that  your  noble  heart  would  be  pained 
if  I  did  not  accept  it.  I  do— I  do !" 

That  fine  old  lady  had  lived  with  her  daughter  too 
long  for  any  surprise  at  this  wonderful  outgush  of  grati 
tude  ;  she  only  moved  to  a  couch  on  the  other  side  of 
the  room,  and  sat  down,  with  a  low  sigh. 

Miss  Eliza  began  to  mutter  and  moan  in  her  chair. 

"Are  you  ill  ?  Is  any  thing  the  matter  ?"  inquired 
the  old  lady. 

"Did  you  see  that  child  go  out?  Did  you  compre 
hend  the  conspiracy  which  that  wicked  woman  has  or 
ganized  to  keep  me  out  of  these  tableaux  ?  Did  you 
observe  the  impertinence  of  that  flippant  girl  ?  Oh ! 
mother,  these  terrible  shocks  will  break  your  child's 
heart  I" 

"Eliza!  Eliza!  this  is  all  fancy,"  answered  the  old 
lady. 

"  Fancy  !  fancy  I     What  is  fancy,  pray  ?" 

"  That  you  have  enemies ;  that  persons  wish  to  annoy 
you.  Why  should  they  ?" 

Miss  Eliza  sprang  up  from  her  chair,  and  turned  upon 
her  mother. 

"No  enemies!  no  enemies!  What  keeps  me  here, 
then?  Why  is  that  silly  child  set  up  in  the  tableau 
nature  and  cultivation  intended  me  to  fill  ?  Madam ! 
madam!  are  you  also  joining  in  the  conspiracy  against 
me?"  Miss  Eliza  shook  her  long,  white  forefinger 
almost  in  the  grand  old  face  of  her  mother,  as  she  spoke. 
"Is  it  by  your  connivance  that  all  gentlemen  are 
excluded  from  my  presence  ?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         59 

"No  one  has  ever  been  excluded,  Eliza." 

"Indeed!" 

The  word  was  prolonged  into  a  sneer,  which  brought 
a  faint  color  into  Mrs.  Halstead's  face. 

"  To  think,"  added  Miss  Eliza,  wrathful  in  the  face, 
"  to  think  of  the  pincushions,  penwipers,  and  lamp- 
mats,  to  say  nothing  of  wax-dolls  and  little  babies,  that 
I  have  made  and  dressed  for  this  very  fair — it's  enough 
to  break  one's  heart.  Not  a  stall  left  for  me  to  attend ; 
every  corner  in  the  tableaux  filled  up  with  silly,  pert 
creatures  that  I  wouldn't  walk  over.  This  is  justice — 
this  is  patriotism.  I  might  be  direct  from  Richmond, 
for  any  attention  they  give  me." 

"  I  am  sure,  Eliza,  the  committee  were  very  thankful 
for  your  help,"  said  old  Mrs.  Halstead,  soothingly. 

"  Thankful,  indeed !  Oh,  yes  !  it  is  easy  enough  to 
simper,  and  shake  hands,  and  speak  of  obligations.  But 
why  didn't  they  treat  all  us  young  girls  alike  ?  Why 
am  I  left  out  of  every  thing  ?" 

Before  Mrs.  Halstead  could  answer,  a  servant  entered 
the  room  and  informed  Miss  Eliza  that  the  carriage  had 
returned. 

"But  I  will  assert  my  rights,"  cried  the  lady,  gather 
ing  a  rose-colored  opera-cloak  about  her,  and  pluming 
herself  before  the  mirror.  "  You  can  go,  Thomas  ;  I 
will  be  down  in  one  moment." 

A  little  deficiency  of  the  toilet  had  struck  Miss  Eliza ; 
and  searching  in  some  pocket  hid  away  in  her  volumin 
ous  skirts,  she  drew  forth  a  little  pasteboard  box, 
turned  her  back  squarely  on  the  old  lady,  and  occupied 
herself,  after  a  mysterious  fashion,  for  some  moments 
close  to  the  mirror. 


60          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Do  not  defend  these  women,  mamma,"  she  said,  with 
angry  emphasis.  "  I  blush  for  them." 

There  certainly  did  seem  to  be  some  truth  in  this  as 
sertion,  for  Miss  Eliza's  cheeks  had  flushed  suddenly  to 
a  vivid  red  ;  but  then  her  forehead  and  around  her  mouth 
had  grown  white  in  proportion,  showing  great  intensity 
of  shame. 

"Now  I  am  going,  mamma;  but  first  give  me  your 
blessing."  Miss  Eliza  dropped  one  knee  to  her  mother's 
foot-stool,  bent  her  tall  form  before  the  grand  old  lady, 
and  seemed  waiting  for  a  solemn  benediction ;  but  the 
sensible  old  lady  put  back  the  mass  of  false  curls  that 
fell  swooping  over  her  daughter's -waterfall,  and  fastened 
them  in  place  with  a  hair-pin  from  her  own  silver-white 
hair. 

"  That  will  do,  my  dear.  I  see  nothing  else  out  of 
the  way." 

Miss  Eliza  arose  with  a  slight  creak  of  the  joints,  and 
a  look  of  mournful  reproach. 

"  Thus  it  is,"  she  said,  "  that  one's  most  sensitive  feel 
ings  are  thrown  back  upon  the  heart.  My  own  mother 
refuses  me  her  blessing ;  but  I  can  define  the  reason— 
the  hidden,  mysterious  reason." 

This  intensified  female  gathered  the  opera-cloak 
around  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  Roman  toga,  and  sailed 
out  of  the  room  with  the  sweep  of  a  wind-mill.  Mrs. 
Halstead  shook  her  handsome  old  head,  and  sighed 
faintly  when  Eliza  disappeared. 

"  Will  she  never  comprehend  our  position  ?"  she  mur 
mured.  "  Never  remember  that  the  bloom  of  girlhood 
does  not  run  through  mid-age  ?  How  good  they  are  to 
overlook  all  this." 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          61 
CHAPTER  IV. 

THE   FAIR. 

AN  old  man  sat  alone  in  one  of  those  large,  old- 
fashioned  houses,  which  have  been  almost  driven  out  of 
existence  by  the  march  of  commerce  into  the  haunts 
of  fashion.  The  rooms  were  broad,  deep,  and  well 
lighted ;  for  there  was  plenty  of  land  around  the  old 
house,  which  was  half  occupied  by  the  remnants  of  an 
old-fashioned  garden,  in  which  two  or  three  quince  trees 
might  be  seen  from  the  side  windows,  covered  with 
plump,  orange-tinted  fruit  in  the  late  autumn,  but 
gnarled  and  knotted  old  skeletons,  as  they  appeared  to 
their  owner  that  frosty  afternoon. 

The  room  in  which  this  man  sat  was  large,  old- 
fashioned,  and  gloomy  enough.  A  Brussels  carpet, 
worn  in  places  till  the  linen  foundation  broke  through 
the  faded  pattern,  was  stretched  upon  the  floor  without 
quite  covering  it,  and  a  breadth  of  striped  stair-carpet 
ing  eked  out  the  deficiency,  running  along  the  foot 
boards  in  meagre  imitation  of  a  cordon. 

A  ponderous  old  sideboard  of  solid  mahogany,  which 
contained  a  multitude  of  drawers  and  shelves  for  every 
thing,  stood  in  a  recess  by  the  fireplace.  On  this  were 
decanters  with  silver  caps ;  and  tiny  silver  shields  hung 
around  their  necks,  telling  what  manner  of  spirits  was 
imprisoned  within,  bespeaking  the  old-fashioned  hos 
pitality  of  forty  years  ago;  and  over  the  sideboard 
hung  a  picture  from  some  Dutch  artist  in  which  bunches 
of  carrots,  heads  of  cabbages,  birds,  newly  shot,  and 
fish  ready  for  the  pan,  were  heaped  together  in  sumptu- 


62    THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 

ous  profusion.  It  was  a  fine  appetizing  kitchen  scene, 
in  which  a  few  marigolds  and  hollyhocks  had  been 
thrown,  as  tasteful  market-men  sometimes  cast  a  hand 
ful  of  coarse  flowers  on  a  customer's  basket.  Some 
mahogany  chairs,  with  well-worn  horse-hair  seats,  stood 
against  the  wall ;  and  a  stiff,  spindle-legged  sofa,  covered 
with  the  same  useful  material,  occupied  a  recess  near 
the  fireplace,  like  that  filled  by  the  sideboard. 

This  old  man,  who  seemed  a  part  and  parcel  of  the 
room,  sat  at  a  round  table,  old-fashioned  as  the  side 
board,  on  which  the  remnants  of  his  solitary  dinner 
still  remained.  A  decanter,  full  of  some  ruby-tinted 
liquor,  stood  before  him  ;  but  the  glasses  were  empty, 
and  not  a  drop  of  liquid  had  as  yet  stained  them.  With 
both  elbows  on  the  table,  and  both  hands  bent  under 
his  chin,  he  sat  gazing  on  the  Dutch  picture ;  but  ap 
parently  seeing  something  far  beyond  it,  which  filled 
his  eyes  with  gloom,  and  bent  his  brows  with  heavy 
thought.  At  last  he  moved  heavily  in  his  chair,  and 
pushed  the  decanter  away  toward  the  centre  of  the 
table. 

"  Why  should  I  think  of  him  now  more  than  at  an 
other  time  ?"  he  muttered.  "  The  fellow  is  safe  enough, 
I  dare  say ;  very  likely  isn't  in  the  army  at  all.  Am  I 
a  man  to  grow  moody  over  a  dream,  or  a  bit  of  night 
mare  ?  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  if  any  one  had  told 
me  so ;  but,  spite  of  myself,  I  do  feel  shaky,  and  tons 
of  lead  seem  to  be  holding  down  my  heart.  Hark  I  I 
heard  the  patter  of  feet  running  swiftly;  now  a  cry. 
There  is  news  from  the  army.  Tush !  what  is  that  to 
me  ?  I  have  no  one  to  mourn  or  hope  for  again." 
The  old  man  started  from  his  chair  and  went  swiftly 


THE    SOLDIEE'S    ORPHANS/          63 

into  the  hall,  crying  out,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  as  he  flung 
the  door  open, 

"Boy,  boy !  I  say — boy,  a  paper,  quick !" 

The  newsboy  broke  up  a  shrill  cry  and  came  clamping 
back,  selecting  a  paper  from  the  bundle  under  his  arm 
as  he  moved. 

"  Great  battle,  sir ;  list  of  killed  and  wounded  a  yard 
long!  Ten  cents;  thank  you!  Can't  stay  to  give 
change.  Most  of  our  fellers  'ed  stick  you  with  a  week 
older,  and  take  the  money  at  that.  But  I  mean  ter  have 
yer  for  a  general  customer.  Hallo  I  there  comes  an 
other  chap  yelling  like  blazes  ;  bet  yer  a  copper,  old 
boy,  that  I  get  round  the  corner  fust." 

Away  the  sharp,  young  rogue  darted  down  the  street, 
with  the  clatter  of  his  thick  shoes  beating  the  pavement 
like  a  pair  of  flails,  and  his  shrill,  young  voice  cutting 
the  frosty  air  with  a  shrill  clearness  that  made  the  old 
man  on  the  doorstep  shiver. 

"  It  is  very  cold,"  he  said,  buttoning  his  coat  over  his 
chest  with  trembling  fingers.  "Yet  I  could  see  the 
wind  whistling  through  that  little  fellow's  hair,  and  he 
did  not  seem  to  mind  it,  or  think  that  his  voice  is  a 
death-cry  to  so  many.  Why  did  I  get  this  ?  What  do 
I  care  who  lives  or  dies  ?" 

The  old  man  went  into  the  house  as  he  spoke,  and 
sat  clown  on  the  spindle-legged  sofa,  unfolding  his  damp 
paper  in  the  light  of  a  window  behind  it.  It  was  the 
first  time  he  had  interested  himself  in  the  war  news 
enough  to  purchase  an  extra.  ]NTow  his  breath  came 
quickly,  and  his  hands  shook  with  something  beside 
cold. 

The  boy  had  spoken  no  more  than  the  truth.    Column 


64  THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

after  column  of  names  filled  up  the  dead-list ;  and  that 
was  followed  by  so  many  names  of  the  wounded  and 
missing,  that  the  most  eager  affection  would  tire  in 
searching  them.  But  the  eyes  of  this  weary  old  man 
seized  upon  each  name,  and  dropped  it  with  ttie  quick 
ness  of  lightning.  He  had  so  long  been  accustomed  to 
adding  up  columns  of  intricate  figures,  that  names  of 
the  dead  glided  by  him  like  shadows.  One  column  was 
despatched,  and  then  another. 

"  What  folly,"  he  said,  looking  up  from  the  paper. 
"  Why  should  a  dream  set  me  to  searching  here  ?  Ha ! 
Oh  !  God,  help  me  1  It  is  here !" 

The  paper  dropped  from  his  hold ;  his  head  fell  for 
ward.  Resting  an  elbow  on  each  knee,  he  supported 
that  drooping  head  with  two  quivering  hands.  After  a 
time  he  arose  from  the  sofa,  and  began  to  walk  slowly 
up  and  down  the  room  with  his  arms  behind  him,  and 
his  fingers  interlocked  with  a  grip  of  iron. 

"  Her  only  son — her  only  hope." 

This  hard,  perhaps  we  may  say,  this  bad  mau,  had 
been  so  shaken  by  a  dream  that  had  seized  upon  his 
conscience  in  the  night,  that  he  was  almost  given  up  to 
regrets ;  for  the  dream  was  reality  now— that  paper  had 
told  him  so. 

"  Why  should  I  have  bought  that  ?"  he  said,  starting 
from  the  paper  which  rustled  against  him  as  he  walked. 
"  Just  as  I  was  thinking  to  search  him  out,  too.  Oh, 
me  !  it  is  hard — it  is  hard  !" 

It  is  an  old  man  I  am  writing  about— a  hard,  stern 
man,  self-sufficient,  and  above  such  small  human  weak 
nesses  as  grow  out  of  the  affections  ;  but  his  whole  na 
ture  was  broken  up  for  the  moment.  Some  plan  of 


THE     S  O  L  I)  I  K  R '  S     ORPHANS.'  65 

atonement,  generosity,  or  ambition,  had  been  overthrown 
by  the  reading  of  that  one  name  among  the  killed  of  a 
great  battle. 

These  thoughts  crowded  on  the  lonely  man  so  closely, 
that  he  felt  suffocated  even  in  that  vast  room,  and  went 
into  the  hall,  beating  his  breast  for  the  breath  that  was 
stifling  him.  But  even  the  cold  hall  seemed  without 
atmosphere.  So  the  old  man  seized  his  hat,  put  on  an 
overcoat  that  hung  on  the  rack,  and  went  into  the  street. 
He  had  no  object,  save  that  of  finding  air  to  breathe, 
and  wandered  off,  walking  more  briskly  than  he  had 
done  for  years,  though  his  cane  had  been  left  behind. 
For  more  than  an  hour  the  old  man  wandered  through 
the  streets,  so  buried,  soul  and  sense,  in  the  past,  that 
he  scarcely  knew  whether  it  was  night  or  day.  At  last 
he  came  opposite  the  great  fair.  Around  the  entrance 
a  crowd  was  gathered,  and  people  were  passing  through 
in  groups,  as  if  some  special  attraction  carried  them 
there. 

The  old  man  remembered  at  once  that  he  had  been 
applied  to  for  contributions  to  this  fair,  and,  being  in  a 
crusty  mood,  had  refused  to  contribute  a  cent.  Now, 
when  the  effect  of  that  name  in  the  death-list  was  upon 
him,  he  groaned  at  the  remembrance  of  his  rudeness ; 
and  forcing  his  way  with  the  crowd,  purchased  a  ticket 
and  went  in. 

This  old  man  was  not  much  given  to  amusing  himself; 
and  the  beautiful  scene  before  him  had  more  than  the 
charm  of  novelt}'.  The  flags,  wreathed  among  flowers 
and  heavy  evergreen  garlands,  made  the  enclosure  one 
vast  bower,  haunted  with  lovely  women,  ardent,  generous, 
4 


66  THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPHANS. 

and  radiant  with  winning  smiles.  The  lights,  twinkling 
through  gorgeous  draperies  and  feathery-fine  boughs, 
almost  blinded  him  as  he  came  in  from  the  dark  street. 
The  life,  the  hum  of  conversation,  the  laughter  that  now 
and  then  rang  up  from  some  stall,  or  group,  fell  upon 
him  strangely.  These  people  seemed  mocking  the 
heavy,  dead  weight  of  sorrow  that  lay  upon  his  soul. 
At  another  time  he  would  have  gone  away  in  disgust, 
muttering  some  sarcasm,  and  escaping  out  of  the  bright 
ness  with  a  sneer.  But  he  was  just  then  too  wretched. 

He  had  refused  money  when  it  was  asked  of  him  ; 
but  now — now,  when  conscience  was  crowning  his  soul 
with  thorns,  he  would  be  liberal.  Fortunately,  there 
was  plenty  of  money  in  the  breast-pocket  which  almost 
covered  his  heart — that  should  redeem  him  from  his 
own  reproaches.  He  would  buy  any  amount  of  pretty 
nothings,  and,  for  once,  fling  away  his  money  like  dirt — . 
why  not  ?  It  was  his  own,  and  no  one  in  this  world  had 
a  right  to  question  him. 

With  these  new  thoughts  in  his  mind,  the  old  man 
paused  before  one  of  those  fairy-like  enclosures,  which, 
in  such  places,  seem  to  have  drifted  out  of  Paradise. 
It  was  one  mass  of  evergreens,  living  vvy,  and  creeping 
plants,  rich  with  blossoms ;  back  of  the  little  bower  this 
wealth  of  foliage  was  drawn  back  like  the  drapery  of  a 
window,  and  through  its  rich  green  came  the  gorgeous 
warmth  of  hot-house  plants  in  full  flower.  Fuchsias, 
frith  a  royal  glow  of  purple  at  heart,  and  rich  crimson 
folding  it  in,  drooping  over  a  Hebe  vase  of  pure  white 
alabaster,  whose  pedestal  was  planted  among  azalias 
white  as  clustering  snow,  pink  as  a  summer-cloud,  or 
blood-red,  in  great  blossoming  clusters,  that  fairly  set 


the  atmosphere  ablaze  with  their  gorgeousness.  Behind 
all  this  was  some  tropical  tree  of  the  acacia  species, 
drooping  like  a  willow  over  the  whole,  and  laden  with 
raciness  of  delicate  golden  blossoms.  Around  the  pe 
destal  of  the  vase  was  a  wreath  of  fire,  composed  of 
tiny  jets  of  gas,  trembling  up  and  down  like  jewels  half 
transmuted  into  the  atmosphere,  which  shed  a  tremulous 
brilliancy  into  the  cups  of  the  flowers,  and  over  the 
greenness  of  the  leaves. 

In  the  midst  of  this  lovely  spot  stood  a  young  girl, 
with  a  fleecy  white  nubia  twisted  around  her  head,  and 
a  heavy  velvet  sacque  shrouding  her  under-dress  from 
head  to  foot — or,  rather,  so  far  as  her  person  was  visible. 
She  had  evidently  only  stepped  into  the  stall  to  supply 
the  place  of  its  usual  occupant,  and  looked  a  little  bewil 
dered  when  the  old  man  came  up  and  inquired  the  price 
of  a  wax-doll. 

"This,"  said  Georgiana  Halstead,  seizing  the  doll, 
which  gave  out  a  little,  indeed,  sullen  shriek,  as  her  hand 
pressed  its  bosom,  "  this  lovely  little  lady  in  full  ball 
costume,  with  a  flounce  of  real  lace,  and  this  heavenly 
sash.  Well,  really,  sir,  I  should  think— let  me  see," 

here  Georgiana  cast  a  side  glance  at  her  customer "  I 

should   think,   twenty,   or — yes,   twenty-five   dollars 

thirty,  say " 

The  nature  of  the  man  arose  above  his  sorrow.  He 
cast  a  withering  glance  at  the  fair  young  face  turned 
upon  him,  and  withdrew  his  hand  from  under  his  vest, 
where  he  had  half  thrust  it  in  search  of  his  pocket- 
book. 

"  Thirty  dollars  for  that  thing?"  he  growled. 

"  For  this  thing  I  this  loveliest  of  lovely  little  ladies ! 


68          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Why,  one  blink  of  her  eyes  is  worth  the  money.  Just 
see  her  fall  asleep,"  cried  Georgiana ;  and  with  a  magic 
twist  of  her  finger,  the  doll  closed  its  blue  eyes  in  serene 
slumber.  "  Thirty  dollars — I  am  astonished  at  myself 
for  asking  so  little." 

A  grim  smile  stole  over  those  thin  lips,  and  the  old 
man's  eyes  sparkled  through  their  gloom,  as  he  looked 
on  that  cheerful  face  dimpling  with  mischief,  turned  now 
upon  him,  now  upon  the  doll.  The  scarlet  ball-dress,  in 
which  the  mimic  fashionable  was  arrayed,  sent  a  flush 
down  the  white  arm  that  held  it  up  for  admiration,  and 
from  which  the  velvet  sleeve  had  fallen  loosely  back, 
revealing  a  bracelet  of  pure  gold,  formed  of  two  ser 
pents  twined  together,  and  biting  each  other.  The  old 
man's  face  became  suddenly  of  a  grayish  white  as  he 
saw  the  ornament. 

"Where — where  did  you  get  that?"  he  questioned,  in 
a  low,  hoarse  voice,  touching  the  bracelet  witn  his  finger. 

"  That,  sir,"  cried  Georgiana,  lowering  the  doll  till  her 
sleeve  fell  to  its  place  again,  and  speaking  with  sudden 
dignity,  "why  should  you  ask?" 

"  Because  I  have  seen  one  like  it  before,  and  only  one. 
Do  not  be  angry,  young  lady.  I  have  no  wish  to  be 
rude  ;  but  tell  me  where  you  got  those  twisted  snakes  ?" 

"They  belong  to  Mrs.  Halstead,  my  father's  step 
mother,"  answered  Georgiana,  impressed  by  the  intense 
earnestness  of  the  man. 

"  Mrs.  Halstead  I  I  do  not  know  the  name ;  but  I 
should  like  those  serpents.  If  this  Mrs.  Halstead  is 
one  of  your  benevolent  women,  who  are  willing  to  fling 
their  ornaments  into  the  national  fund,  I  will  pay  her 
handsomely  for  them — very  handsomely." 


"  Of  course,  grandmamma  is  as  charitable  as  the  day  is 
long,  and  would  give  almost  any  thing  to  help  those 
who  suffer  for  our  country ;  but  I  don't  know  about 
these  pretty  reptiles.  She  may  have  a  fondness  for  them 
— some  association,  as  Miss  Eliza  says." 

"No,  no,  that  cannot  be!  they  have  no  connection 
with  her.  She  must  have  bought  them  at  some  pawn 
broker's  sale.  They  can  have  no  value  to  her,  except  as 
a  curiosity.  Ask  her  if  she  will  sell  them  for  ten  times 
their  weight  in  gold!" 

"  I — I  will  ask  her,  if  you  wish  it  so  much ;  but  she 
will  think  it  strange." 

"  No  matter — ask  her.  And  now,  to  show  you  that  I 
am  in  earnest,  here  is  thirty  dollars  for  that  bit  of  satire 
on  womankind,  which  you  may  hand  over  to  the  first 
little  girl  that  comes  along.  Ah !  here  is  one  now,  look 
ing  meek  and  frightened.  Little  woman,  would  you 
like  a  doll?" 

The  little  girl  thus  addressed  turned  her  great,  brown 
eyes  from  the  old  man  to  the  doll,  shrinking  back,  and 
yet  full  of  eager  desire. 

"  Is  it  for  me? — for  me  ?"  she  said  at  last,  as  the  glo 
rious  creature  was  pressed  upon  her.  "  Please,  don't 
make  fun  of  me  1" 

"  He  isn't  making  fun,  indeed  he  isn't,  my  little  lady," 
cried  Georgiana,  delighted  with  the  whole  proceeding. 
"  I  dare  say  he  hasn't  any  little  girl  of  his  own,  and 
wants  to  do  something  nice  by  the  little  girl  of  some 
body  else.  Take  it  in  your  arms,  dear,  and  don't  forget 
the  good  gentleman  when  you  say  your  prayers." 

"I  won't,  indeed,  sir.  I'll  put  you  into  the  long 
prayer,  and  the  short  one,  too,  special,"  cried  the  little 


70          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

creature,  dimpling  brightly  under  her  happiness,  and 
huddling  the  great  doll  up  in  her  arms  as  if  she  had 
been  its  mother.  "  Aunt,  aunt,  see  here  !"  Away  the 
little  creature  darted  toward  some  woman,  who  was  so 
mingled  up  with  the  crowd  that  her  bonnet  only  could 
be  distinguished. 

"  There  is  one  person  made  happy  by  your  thirty  dol 
lars,  sir,"  said  Georgiana,  brightly;  "to  say  nothing  of 
those  who  will  receive  your  money.  Any  thing  more 
that  I  can  show  you  ?  Here  comes  a  couple  of  little 
boys  barefooted,  and  looking  so  poor." 

The  old  man  turned  toward  the  two  boys,  who  had 
wandered  away  from  some  inner  room,  and  were  gazing 
around  them  with  eager  curiosity.  Something  in  their 
faces  seemed  to  strike  him,  for  his  countenance  changed 
instantly,  and  he  took  a  step  forward  to  meet  the  chil 
dren,  who  paused  before  the  stall  where  Georgiana  pre 
sided,  lost  in  admiration. 

"  What  would  you  buy  here,  if  you  had  plenty  of 
money  ?"  asked  the  old  man,  laying  one  hand  on  the 
elder  lad's  shoulder. 

"  If  I  had  plenty  of  money  ?"  repeated  the  boy,  staring 
into  the  dark  face  bending  over  him.  "  I — I  don't  know. 
I  never  had  plenty  of  money." 

"But  you  would  like  to  buy  some  of  these  nice 
things?" 

"Oh!  yes,  I  would." 

"  Well,  what  is  there  here  that  you  like  ?" 

The  lad  took  a  swift  survey  of  the  brilliant  articles 
arranged  in  Miss  Halstead's  stall. 

"I'd  buy  one  of  them  caps  for  grandma,"  he  said; 


THE 


71 


"  and  that  shawl,  with  the  red  and  white  border,  for 
sister  Anna." 

"  No,  no  I  buy  'em  a  whole  heap  of  candy,  and  cakes, 
and  oranges,  and  peanuts,"  cried  the  younger  child, 
pulling  at  his  brother's  coat. 

"  Come  here,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  tone  of  compas 
sion,  "  let  me  look  in  your  face." 

The  elder  lad  turned  frankly,  and  lifted  his  eyes  to 
those  of  the  old  man.  That  was  a  frank,  honest  young 
face,  full  of  life  and  purpose,  notwithstanding  the  pallor 
which  spoke  of  close  rooms  and  insufficient  food. 

"  These  are  thin  clothes  for  winter,"  said  the  old  man, 
grasping  Robert's  shoulder  almost  roughly.  "  What  is 
your  father  doing,  that  you  have  nothing  better  than 
these  things  ?" 

"  My  father  went  to  fight  for  his  country,"  answered 
the  lad,  bravely.  "  It  isn't  his  fault." 

"  It  isn't  his  fault,"  repeated  the  younger  boy,  creep 
ing  behind  his  brother  as  he  spoke,  dismayed  by  his  own 
voice. 

"No  shoes !"  muttered  the  old  man. 

"A  soldier's  boys  know  how  to  go  barefooted,"  said 
Robert.  "  It  don't  hurt  us— much." 

"  Come  with  me  !  come  with  me  !  I  saw  some  things 
round  here  that  may  be  worth  something !" 

The  old  man  strode  away  as  he  spoke,  followed  by  the 
two  boys,  who  ran  to  keep  up  with  him.  He  stopped 
at  a  less  showy  stall  than  that  he  had  left,  and  spoke  to 
the  rather  grave  female  who  presided  there. 

"  Take  a  good  look  at  these  children,  and  fit  them 
out  with  warm,  decent  clothing.  You  can  supply 
something  fanciful  in  the  way  of  a  hat  or  cap  for  the 


72          THK    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

little  fellow  with  the  curls.  Let  the  boots  be  thick  and 
strong.  Leave  nothing  out  that  will  make  them  com 
fortable  for  the  winter.  Make  them  up  in  two  bundles  ; 
they'll  find  strength  to  carry  them,  I  dare  say." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !"  almost  shouted  the  boys  in  unison. 

"  We  know  how  to  carry  carpet-bags  and  bundles, 
don't  we  ?"  continued  Robert,  addressing  Joseph,  who 
was  shrinking  away  from  the  sound  of  his  own  voice. 

"  You  do,"  whispered  the  little  fellow ;  "you  do." 

"  Come  along  with  me,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
cast  off  half  the  weight  of  his  sorrow  since  these  chil 
dren  had  approached  him.  "  There  is  something  to  eat 
around  here." 

"  Oh,  my  I"  exclaimed  Joseph,  with  a  sigh  of  infinite 
delight;  "oranges,  maybe,  or  pea-nuts." 

"  Sir,"  said  Robert,  lifting  his  clear  eyes,  bright  with 
thankfulness,  to  the  old  man's  face,  that  was  so  intently 
regarding  him,  "  would  you  just  as  leave  let  me  stay 
behind,  and  take  grandmother  and  sister  Anna  ?  They'd 
like  it  so  much." 

"  No,  no  I  come  along !  I'll  give  you  something  for 
them.  We  can't  have  women  about  us." 

He  spoke  peremptorily,  and  the  children  obeyed  him, 
almost  afraid. 

All  sorts  of  delicious  things  broke  upon  the  lads 
when  they  entered  that  portion  of  the  fair  which  was 
used  as  a  restaurant;  and  these  half-famished  young 
creatures  grew  wild  with  animal  delight  when  cakes, 
pies,  and  oranges  were  placed  in  their  hands. 

The  old  man  sat  down,  and,  leaning  his  elbows  on  a 
table,  watched  these  happy  children  as  they  eat  the  food 
he  hud  given  them.  In  years  and  years  he  had  not 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS.          73 

tasted  pure  joy  like  that.  An}*-  one,  to  have  watched 
him  then,  would  never  have  believed  him  the  hard  old 
fellow  that  he  was.  His  eyes  sparkled,  and  he  chuckled 
softly  when  little  Joseph  hid  away  an  orange  in  his 
pocket,  thinking  how  nice  it  would  be  for  grandma  ;  and,, 
after  a  little,  he  fell  to  himself,  and  began  to  eat  with 
relish.  The  very  sight  of  those  children  enjoying  them 
selves  so  much  had  given  him  an  appetite. 

The  bundles  were  all  ready  when  this  strange  group 
returned  for  them. 

"  Now  for  the  red-and-white  shawl,  and  that  cap,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  Here  are  lots  of  candies,  and  the  other 
things  in  this  paper,  which  we  will  roll  up  in  them." 

"Will  you,  though?"  said  Robert,  taking  a  bundle 
under  each  arm.  "  I  say,  sir,  won't  you  let  me  hold 
your  horse  and  run  errands  for  all  this  ?  I'll  do  it  first- 
rate." 

The  old  man  looked  down  kindly  upon  him. 

"Perhaps,  who  knows,"  he  said,  answering  some  idea 
in  his  own  mind  rather  than  what  the  lad  was  saying. 
"  Here  is  the  stall,  but  the  lady  is  gone." 

True  enough ;  another  person  had  taken  the  place  of 
Georgiana  Halstead,  of  whom  the  shawl  and  cap  were 
bought. 

The  old  man  was  keenly  disappointed,  for  he  had  in 
tended  to  learn  something  more  about  the  serpent- 
bracelet.  But  the  young  lady  in  charge  had  no  knowl 
edge  of  the  lady  who  had  preceded  her  temporarily. 

While  the  old  man  was  questioning  this  lady,  a  young 
girl  came  hurrying  through  the  crowd,  eagerly  looking 
for  some "  one  in  eager  haste.  She  saw  the  boys,  and 
came  breathlessly  up. 


74          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  to  have  found  you,  boys !"  she 
cried,  addressing  them  in  haste.  "  The  ladies  are  wait 
ing  for  you  I" 

"  Oh,  Anna  !  he  has  been  so  kind  !  You  wouldn't  be 
lieve  it !"  cried  Robert,  looking  down  at  his  bundles. 
"  Such  clothes  I" 

"  Such  cakes  and  candies,"  chimed  in  Joseph. 
"And   something  for  you.     Such  a  shawl— there   it 
lies;  and  a  cap  for  grandma!"  said  Robert.     "Thank 
him,  Anna  ;  I  cannot  do  it  half!" 

"  I  don't  understand — I  am  in  such  haste.  The  time 
is  up,  sir  ;  but  I  think  you  have  done  something  very 
generous,  that  my  brothers  want  me  to  thank  you  for. 
I  do  it  with  all  my  heart.  But  we  must  go." 

"  Not  till  you  have  taken  these,"  said  the  old  man, 
hastily  rolling  up  the  paper  of  bon-bons  in  the  shawl, 
which  he  had  just  paid  for.  "  It  is  a  present  from  this 
fine  lad  ;  wear  it  for  his  sake." 

"  I'll  carry  it  for  her,  and  the  cap,  too,"  cried  Joseph, 
seizing  on  the  carelessly-rolled  bundle. 

"  Good-night,  sir  !  I  wish  I  had  time  to  thank  you," 
said  Anna,  earnestly.  "  Good-night !" 

"  Good-by,  sir  I"  said  Robert,  with  a  faltering  voice; 
for  he  was  near  shedding  tears  of  gratitude. 

"  Good-by  !     I  wish  I  could  do  something  for  you." 
Away  the  three  went,  after  uttering  their  adieus,  pass 
ing  swiftly  through  the  crowd. 

The  old  man  followed  them  at  a  distance  till  they  led 
him  into  that  portion  of  the  building  devoted  that  even 
ing  to  tableaux,  when  they  disappeared  through  a  side 
door. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          75 

"A  dollar  extra,  here !"  said  a  man  stationed  near  the 
door.  "  The  seats  are  almost  filled  I" 

The  old  man  took  some  money  from  his  pocket,  and 
went  in,  feeling  interested  in  the  persons  he  had  be 
friended,  and  resolved  to  find  them  again  if  possible. 
He  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the  door,  and  waited. 
The  room  was  full,  the  light  dim,  and  a  faint  hum  of 
whispering  voices  filled  the  room. 

At  last  a  bell  rang.  Some  dark  drapery,  directly 
before  him,  was  drawn  back,  and  then  appeared  before 
him  those  boys  huddled  together  near  an  old  lady,  in 
poverty-stricken  garments,  with  a  yawning  fire-place  in 
the  back-ground,  and  a  young  girl  brightening  the  tab 
leau  with  her  beauty. 

There  was  breathless  stillness  in  the  room — for  the 
picture  was  one  to  touch  the  heart  and  fire  and  refine 
the  imagination.  Xo  one  stirred ;  and  every  eye  was 
bent  on  that  living  picture  of  misery.  But,  all  at  once, 
some  confusion  arose  near  the  door  j  an  old  man  was 
pressing  his  way  out  so  eagerly  that  he  pushed  the  door 
keeper,  who  was  leaning  forward  to  see  the  picture,  so 
rudely  aside,  that  he  almost  fell. 


CHAPTER   V. 

AN    UNEXPECTED    PERFORMER. 

TWICE  Anna  Burns  had  changed  her  costume,  first  to 
satisfy  Mrs.  Savage,  that  it  would  be  all  that  she  desired 
for  the  Ivanhoc  tableaux  ;  and  again,  that  no  detail  of 


76  THE     S  O  L  D  I  K  ll' S     ORPHANS. 

poverty  should  be  wanting  to  that  picture  which,  alas ! 
has  been  so  often  duplicated  in  real  life,  "  The  Soldier's 
Destitute  Family."  As  she  was  putting  on  a  Jewish 
garment  a  second  time,  in  the  little  drawing-room,  a 
rather  heavy  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  a  voice 
that  made  her  start,  from  the  deep  tragedy  of  its  tones, 
sounded  in  her  ear. 

"  Are  you  the  young  person  ?" 

«I__I What   young   person?"   faltered  Anna, 

turning  crimson  under  the  touch  of  that  hand. 

"  Mrs.  Savage  has  a  dependent  or  protege,  here,  who 
is  to  stand  in  the  Ivanhoe  picture.  Are  you  that  per 
son?" 

Anna  turned  suddenly,  and  looked  her  tormentor  in 
the  face.  She  was  a  tall,  angular  person,  with  a  com 
plexion  that  seemed  washed  out  and  re-dyed,  pale  blue 
eyes,  full  of  impatient  ferocity,  and  a  mouth  that  was 
perpetually  in  motion. 

"Are  you  that  person?"  she  repeated,  giving  the 
shoulder  she  pressed  a  slight  shake. 

"  I  came  here  at  the  request  of  Mrs.  Savage,  if  that  is 
what  you  to  wish  to  know,"  answered  Anna  Burns,  step 
ping  back  with  a  gesture  of  offended  pride. 

"  And  you  are  her  Rebecca  ?"  answered  Miss  Eliza 
Halstead,  shaking  out  her  laced  kandkerchief,  and  inha 
ling  the  perfume  which  it  gave  forth  with  a  proud  ele 
vation  of  the  head.  "  So  she  is  determined  to  monop 
olize  every  thing.  Has  Miss  Georgiaua  Halstead  arrived 
yet?" 

"I  do  not  know  the  lad}T." 

"  Not  know  her,  and  she  is  to  be  your  foil— your  rival. 
When  you  go  oft"  the  stage  she  vail  come  on,  robed  in 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPIIANS.          77 

azure  velvet,  crowned  with  pearls — my  pearls  ;  while 

I but  never  mind,  there  is  blood  in  my  veins  which 

can  protect  itself.  Oh  !  here  she  comes.  Say  nothing  ; 
be  secret  as  the  grave  I  You  will  see  !  You  will  see  !" 
Miss  Halstead  put  one  long  finger  to  her  lips,  and  glided 
backward  out  of  the  room  just  as  Georgiana  Halstead 
came  in  by  a  side  entrance. 

For  a  moment  these  two  young  girls  stood  looking  at 
each  other ;  one  with  a  rosy  blush  on  her  cheeks  and  a 
smile  on  her  lips ;  the  other  shy,  pale,  and  shrinking. 
She  felt  like  an  intruder  there. 

Georgiana  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  I  suppose,  from  that  dress,  that  you  are  Miss 
Burns,"  she  said,  with  graceful  cordiality.  "  There  is 
no  one  here  to  introduce  us;  but  I  am  Miss  Halstead, 
as  the  dear,  delicate,  stupid  Rowena,  who  is  to  get 
Ivanhoe  away  from  you." 

A  flush  of  scarlet  came  over  Georgiana's  face,  as  she 
became  conscious  of  her  own  light  speech,  and  felt  the 
strange  look  which  Anna  turned,  unconsciously,  upon 
her ;  but  she  turned  this  embarrassment  off  with  a 
sweet  laugh ;  and  throwing  aside  her  velvet  sacque, 
stood  out  in  the  dim  room  a  picture  in  herself. 

"How  beautifully  you  are  dresse'd,"  she  said,  scan 
ning  Anna's  costume  with  an  admiring  glance.  "  That 
crimson  velvet  tunic,  with  its  warmth  and  depth  of 
color,  has  singular  richness.  And  the  diamond  necklace, 
how  the  light  quivers  over  it.  Upon  my  word,  Madam 
Savage  has  exhibited  a  taste  for  once.  The  whole  effect 
is  wonderful." 

"It  is  her  taste;  I  had  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  said 
Anna,  glancing  at  her  own  loveliness  in  the  glass.  "  The 


78          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

diamond  necklace,  if  it  is  diamonds,  belongs  to  her. 
Indeed,  I  scarcely  know  myself  in  this  dress  or  place." 
"  But  I  hope  to  know  you,  and  intimately,  some  day," 
answered  Georgiana,  with  prompt  admiration.  "  But 
here  comes  the  madam,  with  a  train  of  committee-ladies, 
ready  to  give  us  inspection.  Don't  let  them  change  a 
fold  of  that  turban,  or  a  single  thing  about  you.  Re 
member,  those  who  have  the  least  taste  will  be  the  first 
to  interfere." 

"Here  they  are  all  ready,  and  looking  so  lovely," 
cried  Mrs.  Savage,  sweeping  into  the  room,  followed 
close  by  half  a  dozen  associates,  whose  silken  dresses 
rustled  sumptuously  as  they  moved.  "Isn't  she  perfect, 
dear  child  ?  But  when  is  she  otherwise  ?" 

Here  Mrs.  Savage  stooped  and  kissed  Georgiana's 
white  neck  with  a  glow  of  natural  fondness,  which  the 
girl  felt  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  and  became  radiant  at 
once. 

"And  Miss  Burns,  too.  How  completely  she  has  fol 
lowed  out  my  idea.  Isn't  she  the  most  fascinating  little 
Jewess  that  ever  lived  ?  Ah  !  are  they  ready  ?  Come, 
Georgie,  child,  you  are  wanted.  Ladies,  hurry  back  to 
your  seats.  I  would  not  have  you  lose  this  tableau  for 
any  thing." 

A  little  storm  of  exclamations  followed  this  speech. 
Then  the  silks  began  to  rustle  violently  again,  while  the 
committee  made  a  rush,  and,  with  a  confusion  of  whis 
pers,  diffused  itself  in  the  audience,  which  was  soon  en 
veloped  in  darkness.  A  bell  tinkled ;  the  dark  curtain 
swept  back,  and  through  a  screen  of  rose-colored  gauze 
Ivanhoe  and  Kowena  were  seen  surrounded  with  rich 
draperies,  heavy  carvings,  and  all  the  appointments  of 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          79 

a  feudal  picture.  Rowena  was  looking  down  over 
powered  by  the  love-light  in  Ivanhoe's  glance ;  a  soft, 
rosy  bloom  lay  on  her  cheek  ;  a  smile  hovered  about  her 
lips ;  no  flower  ever  drooped  more  modestly  in  the  sun 
shine  that  brightened  it.  The  young  creature  did  not 
move,  but  you  could  see  the  slow  heave  and  fall  of  her 
bosom.  There  was  no  acting  there;  the  presence  of 
love,  pure  and  vital,  made  itself  felt,  though  it  might 
not  have  been  thoroughly  understood.  Ivanhoe  gazed 
down  upon  her  with  admiration,  and  it  may  be  that 
more  tender  feelings  called  forth  the  bright  smile  on  his 
face.  But  young  Savage  was  thinking  of  the  character 
he  was  to  maintain— she  was  thinking  only  of  him.  A 
single  minute  this  noble  picture  defined  itself  before  the 
crowd ;  then  the  curtain  fell,  and  all  was  dark  again. 

The  tableau  was  one  which  had  been  designed  to  re 
peat  itself  by  a  change  of  position  in  the  characters. 
While  the  applause  was  loudest,  and  young  Savage 
stood  behind  the  curtain  holding  Georgia's  hand ;  while 
he  described  the  position  she  was  to  assume,  a  rather 
impatient  voice  from  behind  the  scenes  called  for  Miss 
Halstead.  The  young  lady,  who  was  blushing  and 
shrinking  under  the  careless  touch  of  his  hand,  ran  out, 
and  found  one  of  the  servant-girls  in  attendance,  who 
said  that  she  must  come  at  once  and  speak  with  Mrs. 
Savage  before  the  curtain  rose  again. 

Georgie  followed  the  girl  in  haste,  and  the  moment 
she  disappeared  a  figure  came  out  from  one  of  the  dark 
corners  and  entered  upon  the  stage,  which  was  but 
dimly  lighted  from  behind  the  scenes.  Savage  saw  the 
glitter  of  her  dress,  and  without  looking  closer  spoke  in 
eager  haste. 


80  THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Just  in  time.  They  are  getting  impatient.  There, 
stand  there,  with  your  head  averted,  as  we  arranged  it : 
now  your  hand." 

Savage  dropped  on  one  knee  as  he  spoke,  took  the 
hand  which  dropped  lovingly  into  his,  and  lifted  his  fine 
e}Tes  to  the  but  half  averted  face.  A  start,  which  brought 
him  half  up  from  his  knees  ;  a  quick  ringing  of  the  bell, 
and  every  face  in  the  audience  was  turned  in  amaze 
ment  on  Miss  Eliza  Halstead,  whose  tall,  gaunt  form 
was  arrayed  in  blue  satin,  surmounted  by  a  tunic  of 
maize-colored  velvet ;  a  band  of  pointed  gold  girding 
her  head  like  a  coronet,  and  from  under  it  flowed  out  a 
mass  of  dull  brown  curls,  wonderful  to  behold.  Her 
head  was  turned* aside  ;  one  hand  was  half  uplifted,  as 
if  to  conceal  the  blushes  that  lay  immovable  on  her 
cheeks ;  and  a  simper,  which  had  a  dash  of  malicious 
triumph  in  it,  gave  disagreeable  life  to  her  face. 

Young  Savage  had  sunk  back  to  his  lover-like  po 
sition  as  the  bell  rang,  and  went  through  his  part  with 
a  hot  flush  on  his  cheek,  and  a  quick  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  position  he  filled  quivering  around  his  hand 
some  mouth.  But  though  master  of  himself,  he  heard 
the  bell  ring  with  a  sense  of  infinite  relief,  and  instantly 
sprang  up,  uttering  what  I  am  afraid  would  have  been 
a  very  naughty  exclamation  had  it  been  allowed  to  go 
beyond  his  breath. 

"Ah !  I  thought  you  would  be  surprised,"  cried  Miss 
Eliza,  beaming  upon  him  in  the  twilight  of  the  stage. 
"  Believe  me,  dear  Mr.  Savage,  I  never  suspected  that 
you  had  any  share  in  the  conspiracy  to  keep  me  in  the 
shade.  But  I  have  defeated  them  for  once  ;  and  I  saw 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          81 

by  that  flush  on  your  check  how  completely  you  tri 
umphed  with  me." 

Savage  struggled  to  keep  from  laughing,  and  submit 
ted  to  the  pressure  which  Eliza  gave  his  hand  between 
her  two  palms  with  becoming  philosophy. 

"  I  suppose  they  will  expect  us  to  give  place  to  the 
next  tableau,"  he  said,  quietty  releasing  his  hand. 
"  This  way,  if  you  are  going  to  the  dressing-room." 

Miss  Eliza  took  his  arm,  and  marched  triumphantly 
off  the  platform.  At  the  first  step  she  met  Georgiana 
coming  back  breathless. 

"It  is  over,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  solemnly;  "the  evil 
machinations  of  my  enemies  has,  for  once,  been  de 
feated  ;  tell  Mrs.  Savage  and  her  crew  this,  with  my 
compliments.  The  audience  out  yonder  can  tell  you 
that,  for  once,  they  have  seen  a  genuine  tableau,  truth 
ful,  artistic,  rich  in  passionate  silence.  Mr.  Savage  here 
can  tell  you  how  it  was  received  with  touching  and  in 
tense  stillness ;  then  a  ripple  of  admiration;  then  a  buz 
of  admiring  curiosity.  We  came  away  to  avoid  the 
outburst  of  enthusiasm,  which  was  no  doubt  over 
whelming." 

"  What  is  this  about  ?  What  does  it  all  mean  ?"  said 
Georgiana,  bewildered.  "Am  I  too  late  ?  After  all,  it 
seems  that  no  one  really  sent  for  me." 

"  Indeed  1"  exclaimed  Miss  Eliza,  with  a  toss  of  the 
head.  "  Have  you  just  found  that  out  ?" 

"  The  tableau  is  over,"  said  young  Savage,  laughing 
in  spite  of  himself.  "  Miss  Halstead  has  honored  me 
by  taking  your  place." 

Georgiana  was  dumb  with  angry  astonishment ;  a  flood 
of  scarlet  rushed  over  her  face  and  neck.     She  even 
5 


82  THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

clenched  her  little  hand,  and,  for  once,  made  a  fist  of  it 
that  would  have  done  great  credit  to  a  belligerent  child 
ten  years  old.  Then  she  burst  into  a  laugh,  musical  as 
a  gush  of  bird  songs  in  April. 

"  You  didn't  do  that,  Miss  Eliza.  Oh !  it  is  too,  too 
delicious.  Savage  on  his  knees,  you  — 

Again  she  burst  forth  into  a  musical  riot  of  laughter, 
while  Eliza  stood  before  her  frowning  terribly.  I  am 
afraid  Savage  joined  her ;  but  the  two  voices  harmo 
nized  so  well  that  Miss  Eliza  never  was  quite  certain. 

"  Georgiana  Halstead,  I  hate  you!"  she  cried,  with  a 
sweep  of  the  right  arm. 

«  I I  can't  help  it,"  pouted  the  young  girl,  pressing 

a  hand  hard  against  her  lips  ;  "  the  whole  thing  is  so 
comical.  What  will  Mrs.  Savage  say  ?" 

Georgiana  might  well  ask,  for  Mrs.  Savage  had  been 
in  front,  and  sat  aghast  during  the  whole  performance, 
which  only  lasted  a  few  minutes.  After  which  she  went 
into  something  as  near  rage  as  well-bred  women  permit 
themselves  ;  and  absolutely  tore  a  handkerchief  made 
of  gossamer  and  lace  into  more  pieces  than  she  would 
have  liked  to  confess  even  to  herself.  A  half-suppressed 
giggle,  which  came  from  that  portion  of  the  room  where 
the  committee  was  clustered,  brought  the  proud  lady  to 
her  composure ;  and  leaning  toward  her  most  inveterate 
rival,  she  whispered  confidently, 

"  It  went  off  tolerably,  after  all,  just  as  I  expected." 
"  Oh  1"  said  the  lady  rival,  smiling  sweetly,  "  then  you 
arranged  it." 

"  Georgiana  Halstead  was  so  kind.  It  quite  annoyed 
her  to  have  Miss  Halstead  cut  out  so  entirely.  Such  a 
lovely  disposition.  Then  there  is  great  power  in  con- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          83 

trast,  you  know  ;  and  my  young  friend,  wlio  comes 
next,  is  directly  opposite  to  Miss  Halstead.  Contrast, 
contrast,  my  dear,  is  every  thing.  You'll  see  that  I  am 
right.  How  splendidly  Savage  bore  himself.  But  I 
knew  that  we  could  trust  to  him." 

During  this  long  speech,  the  lady  to  whom  Mrs.  Sav 
age  addressed  herself,  took  an  occasion  to  whisper  to 
her  next  neighbor,  who  bent  toward  the  person  who  sat 
next  her  ;  this  swelled  into  a  buz,  which  ran  through  the. 
committee,  and  beyond  it,  checking  all  laughter  as  it 
went. 

Then  Mrs.  Savage  rose  with  dignity,  and  went  back 
of  the  scenes,  rustling  her  silks  like  a  green  bay-tree, 
and  biting  her  lips  till  they  glowed  like  ripe  cherries. 
She  met  Miss  Halstead  sailing  majestically  toward  her 
carriage,  still  clinging  to  the  arm  of  young  Savage  with 
desperate  pertinacity. 

"  Here  comes  your  mother,  sir,  my  bitterest  enemy. 
As  a  defenceless  female,  I  claim  your  protection,"  cried 
that  lady,  pausing  suddenly,  and  clasping  both  hands 
over  his  arm,  as  Mrs.  Savage  came  up. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Halstead,  how  beautifully  you  did  it. 
I  came  at  once  to  thank  you.  Fortunate,  wasn't  it,  that 
nry  messenger  overtook  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Savage  said  this,  smiling  blandly,  and  with  her 
gloved  hand  held  forth  with  a  cordiality  perfectly  irre 
sistible. 

"  Messenger,  Mrs.  Savage,"  said  Eliza  Halstead,  draw 
ing  herself  up  with  an  Elizabethian  air.  "I  do  not 
understand !" 

"Xot  understand,  and  yet  acted  the  part  so  well. 
Oh,  Miss  Ilalstead !" 


84          THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

Eliza  Halstead  was  eccentric  and  headstrong;  but 
she  was  not  quite  a  fool.  In  fact,  few  people  possessed 
so  much  low  cunning.  She  had  all  the  craft  and  calcu 
lation  of  a  lunatic,  without  being  absolutely  crazy.  It 
flashed  across  her  mind  instantly  that  she  would  do  well 
to  accept  at  once  the  doubtful  invitation  hinted  at,  and 
thus  escape  the  odium  of  a  rude  intrusion. 

"Ah,  my  dear  Mrs.  Savage,  you  are  so  good,"  she 
cried,  bowing  her  head,  but  still  keeping  both  hands 
elapsed  over  that  reluctant  arm.  "  Still. I  was  but  just 
in  time.  I  am  so  glad  you  were  pleased  ;  Mr.  Savage 
here  was  delighted." 

"The  whole  thing  was  charming,"  answered  Mrs. 
Savage,  setting  her  teeth  close  and  turning  away. 
"  The  ladies  are  all  delighted.  Horace,  pray  make  haste 
and  escort  Miss  Halstead  to  her  carriage,  if  she  must 
go ;  the  ladies  are  dying  to  thank  you  for  this  surprise. 
How  prettily  Georgiana  entered  into  our  little  con 
spiracy.  Good-evening,  Miss  Halstead  ;  be  careful  and 
not  take  cold.  Adieu  !" 

"  What  a  charming  woman  your  mother  is  —  so 
queenly,  so  gracious,"  whispered  Eliza,  leaning  toward 
her  companion.  "  So  magnificently  handsome,  too. 
Never  in  my  life  did  I  see  a  son  and  mother  resemble 
each  other  so  much.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Savage !  thank 
you !  If  I  remember  rightly,  Kowena  gave  Ivanhoe  her 
hand  to  kiss— ungloved,  I  fancy— there,  this  once." 

Miss  Halstead  leaned  out  of  the  carriage,  and  held 
forth  her  hand,  beaming  gently  upon  young  Savage,  who 
took  the  hand,  pressed  it,  bowed  over  it,  and  laid  it 
gently  back  into  Miss  Halstead's  lap. 

"  I  dare  not  presume !     I  have  not  the  audacity  !"  he 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          85 

said.  "Adieu !  adieu  !  Believe  ine,  I  shall  never  forget 
this  evening !" 

"  Oh,  heavens  !  nor  1 1"  exclaimed  Miss  Eliza,  kissing 
her  own  hand  where  he  had  touched  it,  with  infinite 
relish.  "  Of  all  the  nights  in  my  life  this  is  my  fate  !" 

Young  Savage  was  at  a  safe  distance  when  Miss 
Eliza  uttered  this  tender  truth;  but,  as  she  declared 
afterward,  "  Her  soul  went  with  him,  and  joined  its 
home  forever  more !" 

As  Horace  Savage  returned,  he  met  Anson  Gould,  a 
young  man  about  whom  all  uppertendom  raved,  as  the 
most  splendid  creature  that  ever  lived  ;  so  rich,  so  dis 
tinguished,  so  talented,  and  so  on. 

"  Hollo !  Gould  1  what  are  you  doing  here,  wandering 
about  like  a  lost  babe  in  the  woods  ?  Searching  for  my 
mother,  eh?" 

" No,"  answered  Gould,  laughing;  "I  am  in  search, 
of  what  is  calle^  the  gentlemen's  dressing-room.  Your 
mother  has  booked  me  for  Bois  Guilbert,  with  a  Re 
becca  that  she  promises  shall  be  stunning — a  Miss 
Burns.  Tell  me  who  she  is,  Savage.  I  do  not  remem 
ber  the  name  in  our  set." 

Savage  felt  a  hot  glow  coming  to  his  cheek.  His 
light,  off-handed  way  of  mentioning  that  young  girl 
annoyed  him  exceedingly. 

"Miss  Burns  is  a  friend  of  my  mother's — not  in 
society  yet,  I  believe,"  he  answered,  quietly.  "  But  I 
keep  you  waiting ;  that  is  the  way  to  your  dressing- 
room."  ;. 

"  Gould  moved  on,  and,  for  the  first  time,  young 
Savage  remarked  how  wonderfully  handsome  he  was. 
I  think  he  congratulated  himself  somewhat  by  remem- 


86          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

bering  that  the  Templar  was  also  a  splendid  specimen 
of  a  man,  and  yet  Rebecca  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
love  him.  Still  the  young  gentleman's  spirits  became 
somewhat  depressed  from  that  moment,  and,  forgetting 
that  he  had  promised  to  make  himself  generally  useful 
in  his  mother's  behalf,  he  crept  away  into  a  corner  of 
the  audience-chamber,  and  there,  half  of  the  time  in 
semi-darkness,  watched  the  curtain  rise  and  fall,  dis 
missing  each  picture  presented  with  something  like 
angry  impatience. 

At  last  the  bell  sounded  with  a  vim,  and  the  audience 
were  all  on  the  alert.  The  noise  of  more  than  usual  stage 
preparations  had  whetted  curiosity ;  and  it  had  been 
whispered  about  that  something  superb  was  coming,  in 
which  Anson  Gould  would  be  a  principal  character — 
Anson  Gould,  the  greatest  catch  of  the  season.  No 
wonder  there  was  a  buzz  and  rustle,  as  if  summer  insects 
and  summer  winds  were  playing  among  forest-boughs 
in  that  portion  of  the  room  where  3Toung  ladies  most 
prevailed. 

As  I  have  said,  the  bell  sounded  with  a  vim ;  the  cur 
tain  swept  back,  and  there  was  a  picture  worth  seeing. 
Just  a  little  scenery  had  been  introduced  into  the  back 
ground.  An  antique  window,  showing  glimpses  of 
a  battlement  beyond,  and,  poised  on  this  battlement, 
with  one  foot  strained  back,  ready  for  a  spring,  and  her 
face  turned  back,  with  a  gesture  of  passionate  menace, 
stood  one  of  the  most  beautiful  girls  that  eyes  ever 
dwelt  upon.  She  was  superb  in  her  haughty  poise; 
superb  in  that  proud  outburst  of  despair  which  had 
sent  her  out  on  that  dizzy  height,  choosing  destruction 
rather  than  dishonor.  Her  dark  eyes,  like  those  of  a 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          87 

slag  at  bay,  were  bent  on  the  kneeling  Templar,  whose 
face  and  form  would  have  won  the  general  attention 
from  any  one  less  gloriously  beautiful  than  that  girl. 

Young  Savage  started  to  his  feet,  and  leaned  forward, 
absorbed.  His  heart  stood  still  for  the  moment,  and  a 
strange  feeling  of  pain  came  upon  him.  By  what  right 
did  that  man  gaze  upon  her  with  such  passionate  admi 
ration.  It  was  real ;  the  wild  love-light  in  those  eyes 
knew  no  dissembling.  Young  Gould  was  his  rival — 
yes,  his  rival  1  There  was  no  use  in  attempting  to  de 
ceive  himself,  he  was  in  love — really  in  love — for  the  first 
time  in  his  life — and  with  whom  ?  He  remembered  that 
low  garret — the  old  woman — the  child  ;  and  that  young 
creature  bending  with  such  sad,  loving  pity  over  them 
both.  He  remembered  the  pile  of  oyster-shells  in  the 
chimney-corner,  and  all  the  poverty-stricken  appoint 
ments  of  the  room  with  a  strange  thrill  of  passion.  His 
love  should  lift  her  out  of  those  depths.  Gould  should 
never  have  an  opportunity  of  kneeling  to  her  again — 
even  in  the  seeming  of  a  picture.  But  then  his  mother, 
his  proud,  aristocratic  father — what  of  them  ? 

Mrs.  Savage  came  up  to  her  son  where  he  stood,  and 
laid  one  of  her  white  hands  on  his  arm.  "  Was  there 
ever  a  success  like  that  ?"  she  said,  looking  back  upon  the 
tableau  with  enthusiasm.  "  It  sweeps  away  that  absurd 
scene  with  the  old  maid.  How  did  that  happen,  Horace  ? 
Don't  tell  me  now,  some  of  them  may  be  listening. 
Oh  !  I  see  you  admire  this  as  I  do.  It  is  the  great  tri 
umph  of  the  evening.  " 

"Mother,"  said  Horace  Savage,  rather  abruptly, 
"  why  did  you  cast  Gould  in  that  piece  ?" 

"  In  order   that  you   might   stand  with   Georgiana, 


88  THE     SOLDIKli'S     ORPHANS. 

Horace.  I  thought  you  understood,"  answered  Mrs. 
Savage,  a  little  surprised. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  I  understand.  It  was  very  kind.  See, 
they  are  clamoring  for  a  second  sight.  I  don't  wonder. 
How  confoundedly  handsome  the  fellow  is  !" 

The  curtain  was  drawn  aside  at  the  demand  of  the 
audience,  and  once  more  Rebecca  was  seen  ready  to  seek 
death  rather  than  listen  to  unholy  vows,  which  could 
only  bring  dishonor.  The  room  was  still  as  death;  not 
a  whisper  sounded  ;  scarcely  a  breath  was  drawn.  The 
picture  was  more  lifelike,  more  replete  with  silent  pas 
sion  than  before ;  while  the  breath  stood  still  on  every 
lip,  and  all  eyes  were  turned  on  the  beautiful  girl,  a 
deadly  white  settled  on  her  face ;  her  lips  parted  with  a 
cry  that  prolonged  itself  into  a  wail  of  pain  that  thrilled 
through  and  through  the  crowd,  and  the  poor  creature 
fell  headlong  into  the  darkness,  carrying  the  mock 
battlement  with  her. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DEATH. 

IT  was  the  voice  of  a  child  that  had  struck  the  life 
from  that  young  heart ;  a  voice  so  changed  and  lost  in 
anguish  that  it  seemed  to  cleave  its  way  through  her 
whole  being. 

" Anna— sister  Anna — come  down  !  Our  father  is 
killed !  He  is  dead— he  is  dead  I" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          89 

As  the  last  syllable  trembled  on  the  boy's  lips,  his 
sister  fell  upon  the  floor  at  his  feet,  white,  cold,  and"  in 
sensible.  He  thought  the  news  had  killed  her.  Down 
he  went  upon  his  two  knees,  and  strove  to  lift  up  her 
head,  around  which  the  turban  gathered  like  a  mockery. 

"Oh!  lift  her  up!  Take  off  these  things,"  pleaded 
the  poor  boy,  lifting  his  agonized  face  to  those  who 
crowded  around  him.  "She  is  dead,  too!  I  killed 
her — it  was  me!  Take  them  off — take  them  off;  they 
look  so  hot  and  bright — she  so  cold.  Won't  she  move? 
Try  and  make  her  look  up.  See  how  limp  her  hand  is. 
Anna,  Anna !  Oh,  sister  Anna !  must  you  go,  too  ?" 

Robert  fell  down  by  the  side  of  his  sister,  shaking  in 
all  his  limbs,  and  moaning  in  piteous  sorrow.  It  did 
seem  as  if  his  cry  had  killed  that  fair  young  creature, 
who  lay  there  under  those  rich  vestments  like  a  pure 
white  lily  in  the  glow  of  a  warm  sunset. 

The  boy  lay  with  his  arms  on  the  floor,  and  his  face 
buried  on  them,  sobbing  piteously. 

The  noise  of  his  grief  reached  that  benumbed  heart. 
Anna  moved,  and  lifting  her  arm  feebly,  laid  it  over  her 
trembling  brother.  He  started  up  with  a  cry,  and 
rained  tears  and  kisses  on  her  face  till  she,  too,  rose  up, 
clinging  to  him. 

"  Was  it  you — was  it  you,  Robert,  that  said  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  Anna  !  Don't  cry ;  don't  break  down  again. 
I  could  not  help  telling  you ;  my  heart  was  breaking. 
Oh !  Anna,  Anna !  my  heart  is  all  broken  up  1" 

Anna  sat  upright  on  the  floor.  Her  hands  wandered 
upward  and  took  the  hot  turban  from  her  head. 

"Oh!  if  these  things  were  put  away — if  I  had  my  old 


90          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

dress  on!  How  shall  we  get  home,  Robert,  I— I  am  so 
weak?" 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  a  sweet  voice,  "  come  with  me. 
Your  dress  is  all  ready;  I  will  help  you  put  it  on." 

It  was  Georgiana  Halstead,  whose  pretty  face,  all 
anxiety  and  tender  compassion,  bent  over  her. 

"  Come  with  me,  Anna,  for  I  am  so  sorry  for  you." 

Anna  looked  up  piteously.  "My  father  is  dead!" 
she  answered. 

"  I  know— I  know.  There,  lean  on  me  ;  the  dressing- 
room  is  close  by." 

Georgiana  was  crying  softly  as  she  spoke ;  and  she 
wound  her  arm  around  that  poor  girl,  supporting  her 
tenderly  as  Robert  followed  them  to  the  dressing-room 
door.  Patiently,  and  with  tears  stealing  down  his  face, 
the  boy  waited  for  his  sister.  She  came  out  directly  in 
her  brown  dress  and  modest  bonnet. 

"  They  want  me  to  wait  for  a  carriage,  Robert ;  but  I 
cannot — I  cannot.  You  and  I  will  go  alone." 

"  No,"  said  a  voice  at  her  elbow.  "  Come,  both  of 
you,  I  have  a  carriage  ready." 

Anna  looked  up,  and  Savage  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
face.  It  was  white  and  quivering,  like  a  white  rose  wet 
with  rain. 

"  My  poor  child,  this  is  terrible !"  he  said,  folding  the 
thin  shawl  around  her ;  "  but  you  shall  not  bear  it  alone, 
you  have  friends." 

Anna  gave  him  a  grateful  look  through  her  tears, 
and  fresh  sobs  broke  to  her  lips. 

"  It  may  be  possible  that  there  is  a  mistake  in  the 
record,"  said  Savage,  making  a  desperate  effort  to  com 
fort  her. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         91 

Anna  looked  up  suddenly  with  a  gleam  of  light  in  her 
eyes ;  but  her  head  drooped  on  the  moment,  and  she 
answered  sadly. 

"  I  feel  that  he  is  dead  !  If  he  were  alive,  there  would 
be  some  warmth  here." 

A  carriage  waited  near  the  entrance  of  the  fair,  and 
young  Savage  lifted  her  in.  Then  he  made  way  for 
Robert,  and  when  the  lad  hesitated,  took  him  up  bodily 
and  landed  him  on  the  front  seat.  It  was  a  gloomy 
ride;  few  words  were  spoken,  and  those  were  lost  in 
sobs. 

"  How  can  I  tell  her  ?  Oh !  it  will  kill  my  grand 
mother.  He  was  her  only  son — all  she  had  in  the  wide, 
wide  world." 

Savage  took  the  two  hands  which  Anna  clasped  in 
her  lap,  and  pressed  them  between  his. 

"  Shall  I  tell  her  for  you  ?"  he  said,  gently. 

"No ;  that  would  be  cruel." 

"  I — I  will  do  it,"  sobbed  Robert,  who  was  huddled  up 
in  a  corner  of  the  carriage.  "  It  is  my  place,  for  I  am 
all  the  man  left  to  take  care  of  her.  When  there  is  any 
thing  hard  to  do,  I  must  do  it ;  and  I  will." 

"  That  is  a  brave  boy,"  said  Savage. 

"No,  sir,  I'm  not  brave.  I  tremble  all  over  at  the 
thought  of  telling  her;  but  I'll  do  it,"  sobbed  the  boy. 
"  Poor  little  Joseph,  too ;  how  he  will  feel  when  he 
knows  how  it  is.  Oh,  sir!  you'd  be  sorry  for  little 
Joseph,  if  you  knew  how  miserable  this  will  make  him. 
He  won't  eat  a  morsel  for  clays  and  days.  He's  so  deli 
cate — Joseph  is — like  a  girl." 

"Yes,  Robert,  I  can  understand  that,"  said  Savage. 


92          THE    SOLDIEE'S    OR  p  HANS. 

"  It  is  all  very  pitiful ;  but,  remember,  your  father  died 
for  his  country  I" 

"  Oh!  I  wish  it  had  been  me — I  wish  it  had  been  me," 
cried  the  boy,  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  grief. 

They  were  at  the  door  now,  close  by  the  gloomy 
entrance  of  that  tenement-house,  which  was  darker  than 
ever  to  those  unhappy  young  creatures.  Savage  went 
with  them  to  the  door.  There  he  hesitated,  reluctant 
to  leave  them.  He  feared  to  intrude  on  their  grief. 

"Shall  I  bid  you  good-night?"  he  said,  addressing 
Robert  rather  than  Anna. 

"  Let  us  go  up  alone,"  said  the  boy,  shivering.  "  Good 
night,  sir ;  Anna  and  I  had  better  go  up  alone.  We  thank 
you  all  the  same." 

Young  Savage  watched  them  sadly  as  they  went  up 
the  dark  staircase,  hand-in-hand,  slowly  and  mournfully, 
like  criminals  mounting  a  gallows.  The  young  man's 
heart  went  with  them  every  step ;  and  he  returned  home 
with  strange  tenderness  brooding  in  all  his  thoughts. 

Up  one  flight  of  stairs  after  another  those  two  young 
creatures  crept,  pausing  more  than  once  to  cling  together 
and  comfort  each  other.  At  last  they  reached  the  door 
of  the  room,  and  stood  there  breathless,  without  daring 
to  turn  the  latch.  A  glow  of  light  came  through  the 
crevices,  and  they  could  hear  the  childish  voice  of  little 
Joseph  chatting  to  his  grandmother  with  unusual  glee. 

"Hark!  I  think  I  hear  'em;  something  stirred  out 
side,"  they  heard  him  saying.  "I'll  open  the  door — I'll 
open  the  door." 

They  heard  the  quick  patter  of  his  feet  coming  that 
way,  and  turned  the  latch. 

"  There,  didn't  I  say  so  ?     Here  they  are !     Look, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          93 

Anna  !  look  at  grandma  in  her  new  shawl.  I-  made  her 
put  it  on ;  and  the  cap,  too.  Isn't  she  grand  ?  Isn't 
she  just  the  handsomest,  darlingest  old  grandma " 

"Joseph,  dear,"  said  the  old  lady,  "hush!  hush!  or 
we'll  never  let  you  go  out  again." 

"  But  isn't  she  splendid  ?"  cried  the  boy  ;  "  and  just 
look  at  me.  A  pocket  here,  and  here,  in  the  trousers, 
too ;  bright  buttons  everywhere.  Oh  !  how  I  love  that 
old  man !  Why,  we've  got  a  pint  of  peanuts  left ! 
Don't  she  look  like  a  lady  ?" 

"  It  was,  indeed,  a  bright  contrast  from  the  dark  stair 
case,  and  from  the  usual  gloom  of  the  apartment. 
Joseph  had  lighted  two  tallow-candles,  and  kindled  a 
good  fire,  by  which  he  had  been  a  full  hour  admiring  his 
grandmother,  who  had  the  soft  worsted  shawl  over  her 
shoulders,  and  a  cap  of  delicate  lace  on  her  head.  She 
did,  in  truth,  look  like  a  lady,  every  inch  of  her. 

Joseph,  also,  was  resplendent  in  his  new  clothes ;  the 
very  buttons  seemed  to  illuminate  the  poverty  of  the 
room  with  gleams  of  gold. 

"I  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  said  the  happy  child, 
pointing  to  his  old  garments  piled  on  a  chair,  with  the 
frontless  cap  lying  on  the  top.  "  We'll  give  those  things 
to  some  poor  boy  that  hasn't  got  friends  to  take  him  to 
fairs  and  put  him  in  pictures,  like  us.  We  mustn't  be 
mean,  if  we  are  rich." 

Robert  went  away  to  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  pre 
tended  to  be  very  busy  untying  the  bundle  which  held 
his  own  old  clothes ;  but  his  hand  shook  so  violently 
that  he  gave  it  up,  and  stood  looking  mournfully  at  his 
grandmother,  with  no  heart  to  speak. 

Anna  was  a  long  time  in  taking  off  her  shawl  and 


94          THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS. 

bonnet.  She  was  afraid  of  revealing  the  sorrow  that 
seemed  to  have  turned  her  face  into  marble.  Robert 
saw  how  she  shrank  away  and  shivered  when  those  kind 
old  eyes  were  turned  upon  her.  He  was,  in  truth,  a 
brave  boy,  even  with  that  terrible  sense  of  desolation 
upon  him.  Lifting  up  his  young  head,  and  choking 
back  the  sobs  that  swelled  in  his  throat,  he  went  up  to 
that  dear  old  woman. 

"  Grandmother,"  he  said,  laying  one  hand  on  her 
shoulder,  and  bending  his  face  to  meet  her  startled 
glance,  for  his  voice  troubled  her,  "  grandmother,  let 
me  put  my  arms  around  you  and  lay  your  head  on  my 
shoulder.  It  reaches  high  enough.  I  am  almost  a  man 
now.  Let  me  kiss  you,  grandmother." 

She  lifted  up  her  sweet,  old  face,  and  the  boy  kissed 
it,  his  lips  quivering  all  the  time. 

"  Grandmother  !" 

"Well,  darling!" 

"  Grandmother !" 

"  What  is  the  matter,*Robert  ?  This  has  been  such  a 
pleasant  night ;  but  you  seem  troubled — what  is  it  ?" 

The  boy  fell  down  upon  his  knees,  and  cried  out  in  a 
wild  burst  of  grief.  "Oh,  Anna,  Anna!  tell  her  that 
our  father  is  killed  !  I  cannot  do  it.  Oh,  I  cannot !" 

Anna  came  forward  and  fell  on  her  knees  by  his  side  ; 
but  she  said  nothing,  the  mournful  truth  had  struck 
home  in  the  passionate  words  which  Robert  had  uttered. 
The  old  woman  clasped  her  withered  hands  quickly, 
and  held  them  a  moment  locked  and  still.  Then  her 
head  fell  back,  her  meek  eyes  closed,  and  two  great 
tears  broke  from  under  the  lashes,  and  quivered  away 
among  the  wrinkles  on  her  cheeks.  Her  lips  moved 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.          95 

faintly;  and  the  children,  who  knelt  with  their  awe- 
stricken  laces  lifted  piteously  to  hers,  knew  that  she 
was  praying. 

Little  Joseph  crept  close  to  his  grandmother,  and 
stole  his  arm  around  her  neck.  She  bent  down  her 
head  and  rested  it  against  his,  praying  still. 

Never,  in  this  world,  was  grief  so  intense,  and  yet  so 
noiseless.  At  last  the  old  woman  unlocked  her  hands, 
and  laid  them  on  the  young  heads  bowed  before  her. 

"  Children,"  she  said,  in  her  meek,  low  voice,  "  God 
knows  best  what  is  good  for  us." 

"Oh,  grandmother!"  cried  Robert,  "shall  we  ever 
see  him  again  ?" 

"All— all;   and  I  very  soon,"  answered  the  old  lady. 

"  Oh,  grandma !  don't  talk  so  ;  we  could  not  live  with 
out  you,"  said  Anna,  in  a  burst  of  tender  grief. 

"  Remember,  my  darlings,  when  death  divides  a 
family,  it  is  not  forever.  How  lonely  it  would  be  if  no 
one  we  love  were  on  the  other  side  of  the  grave  to  meet 
us  when  we  go  there." 

"All  the  brave  soldiers  that  died  on  that  battle-field 
will  bear  him  company,"  said  Robert. 

"And  mother— will  she  be  there  to  meet  him?"  said 
little  Joseph,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  remember  her  so  well !" 

Anna  lifted  her  face  from  her  grandmother's  lap,  and, 
reaching  up  her  lips,  kissed  the  child. 

"  Yes,  Joseph,  dear,  they  are  together  now.  It  is 
only  their  poor  children  who  are  lonely." 

"And  grandmother  !"  said  Joseph. 

"  Grandmother  can  live  or  die,  as  God  wills,"  answered 
that  meek,  old  woman.  "Here,  she  has  three  dear, 
dear  grandchildren.  There,  she  has  them." 


96          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

The  children  had  almost  stopped  weeping.  There 
was  something  almost  holy  in  the  calm  of  that  gentle 
woman's  grief  that  subdued  theirs  into  sadness. 

"  He  died  for  his  country  !"  said  Robert,  with  a  gleam 
of  pride.  "  Died  bravely,  I  know." 

"  How  glad  mother  must  have  been  when  he  came," 
whispered  Joseph.  "  I  wonder  if  they  thought  of  us." 

"They  will  never  cease  thinking  of  us,  darlings," 
said  Anna.  "  God  help  us !  we  are  not  alone.  Thou 
sands  of  helpless  children  are  made  orphans  with  us, 
all  mourning  as  we  do." 

"  Oh !  how  sorry  I  am  for  them  1"  cried  Robert. 
"  Some  may  be  little  babies,  with  no  brother  that  can  do 
things  to  take  care  of  them.  You  are  better  off  than 
that,  grandmother." 

"  I  dare  say  a  great  many  are  in  a  worse  condition 
than  we  are,  child.  Some  have  no  friends.  Let  us  be 
thankful  and  patient." 

"  Yes,  grandmother,  we  will." 

"  Now  go  to  bed,  boys,  and  try  to  sleep." 

"  May  we  say  our  prayers  here — the  closet  is  so 
dark?" 

"  Yes,  dear!" 

"Will  he  know  it?  Will  he  hear  us?"  whispered 
Joseph. 

"Yes,  darling,  I  think  so;  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  That  is  almost  like  having  him  here,"  was  the  gentle 
answer. 

"He  is  here,"  said  Anna,  smiling  through  her  tears, 
"my  heart  is  so  still  and  quiet.  It  seems  as  if  a 
dove  were  brooding  over  it," 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         97 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    UNCLE    FLEECED. 

Two  young  men  sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  Continental. 
It  was  after  dark,  and  the  chandelier  was  lighted  over  a 
small,  round  dinner-table,  spread  elaborately,  at  which 
the  two  young  men  had  just  completed  a  sumptuous 
repast. 

They  had  both  taken  segars,  as  a  luxurious  conclusion 
to  the  meal ;  and,  leaning  back  in  the  coziest  of  Turkish 
chairs,  were  chatting  socially  together,  while  clouds  of 
thin  purplish  smoke  curled  and  eddied  lazily  over  the 
rich  confusion  of  the  table,  where  fruit  glowing  in  silver 
baskets  ;  claret  jugs  cut  into  sharp  ridges  of  light  like 
splintered  ice  ;  tiny  glasses,  amber-hued,  green,  or  ruby 
red,  half  full  of  rich  wines  from  many  a  choice  vintage, 
were  crowded  close  and  huddled  together  like  jewels  on 
a  queen's  toilet.  Here  and  there  the  glossy  whiteness 
of  the  tablecloth  was  stained,  like  a  map,  with  a  little 
sea  of  pink  champagne,  or  oceans  of  claret,  proving  that 
there  had  been  some  unsteadiness  of  the  hand  at  the 
latter  portion  of  the  banquet.  Indeed,  the  cheeks  of 
these  two  young  men  were  hotly  flushed  with  scarlet,* 
which  glowed  through  the  smoke  as  it  curled  from  their 
lips. 

"  So  you  are  at  last  taken  in  and  done  for  ?"  said  one 
of  the  men,  flirting  the  ashes  from  his  segar  with  a  little 
finger,  on  which  a  small  diamond  glittered  like  a  spark 
of  fire.  "  I  don't  believe  you  are  in  earnest  yet,  and 
shan't  till  you've  slept  on  it  at  least  forty-eight  hours. 
6 


93          THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

What  kind  of  an  angel  is  she — blonde,  or  brunette, 
petite,  or  queenly?" 

"  No  matter  about  that,  Ward.  I  have  no  taste  for 
showing  up  a  woman's  points  as  if  she  were  a  race 
horse.  She  is  beautiful,  and  that  should  satisfy  you." 

"But  who  is  she?" 

"  That  is  the  question.  She  is  somebody  that  Madam 
Savage  chooses  to  patronize  without  deigning  to  make 
explanations." 

"  Did  she  introduce  you  ?" 

"  Why,  hardly.  She  just  named  us  to  each  other,  and 
hurried  us  off  into  a  tableau,  where  I  found  myself 
kneeling  to  one  of  the  loveliest  creatures  you  ever  saw, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  scorn  and  avoid  me  with  a  tragic 
threat  of  throwing  herself  down  a  battlement  of  paste 
board  at  least  six  feet  from  the  floor.  Upon  my  soul, 
Ward,  she  was  so  beautiful  in  that  position  that  I  could 
have  knelt  forever,  just  to  keep  her  in  that  one  graceful 
poise ;  but  in  the  midst  of  my  enchantment  away  she 
plunged  over  the  battlement,  breaking  up  the  picture  in 
a  twinkling,  and  leaving  me  on  my  knees  startled  out 
of  my  wits.  The  curtain  fell,  and  all  was  confusion  for 
a  time.  Before  I  could  get  out  of  the  darkness,  the  girl 
was  gone.  I  waited  half  an  hour  about  the  scene,  hoping 
that  she  would  appear  again.  She  did  come  at  last, 
but  young  Savage  was  with  her,  looking  confoundedly 
handsome  and  tender.  I  could  have  knocked  the  fellow 
down  with  a  will." 

"  Did  you  see  where  they  went  ?" 

"  Into  a  carriage — the  madam's  own  carriage — no 
hack.  There  was  a  boy  with  them,  too." 

"  That  looks  respectable." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         99 

"But  her  dress,  when  she  came  out,  was  poor;  a 
brown  merino,  or  something  of  that  sort,  with  a  straw 
bonnet,  pretty,  but  out  of  fashion." 

"  And  you  wish  to  know  something  of  this  girl  ?" 

"  I  will  know  something  of  her." 

"  Why  not  ask  Savage  ?" 

"  I  tell  you,  the  fellow  loves  her  himself.  I  saw  it  in 
his  eyes  as  he  looked  under  that  outre  little  bonnet." 

"And  you?" 

"  Don't  question  me  in  that  way,  Ward.  Of  course, 
I'm  deucedly  in  love  with  her.  You  must  find  her  out 
for  me  by  some  means." 

"  That  would  be  easy,  if  I  were  intimate  with  Mrs. 
Savage's  coachman.  He  would  of  course  know  where 
he  drove  the  party." 

"  Well,  get  intimate  with  the  fellow." 

"  I  will  think  about  it ;  but  now  to  other  business. 

You  haven't  a  check  for  a  thousand  about  you or  two 

five  hundred  notes  in  greenbacks  ?     That  was  about  the 
amount  of  your  losses  the  other  night." 

"  What,  was  it  so  much  ?  I  had  no  idea  of  it.  No, 
my  bank  account  has  run  down  to  nothing ;  and  as  for 
ready  money,  I  dare  not  trust  myself  with  it.  This 
filmy  paper  is  so  handy  to  light  segars  with.  One  does 
that  sort  of  thing  occasionally.  I  did  the  other  night. 
But  I'll  tell  you  what,  Ward,  instead  of  paying  you  the 
thousand,  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  fellow  that's  throwing 
away  his  money  like  wild-fire,  thousands  on  thousands 
in  a  week.  One  of  those  petroleum  chaps,  with  wells 
that  gush  up  fortunes  in  a  day." 

"And  what  is  the  fellow  doing  here?" 
"  Spending  his  money." 


100        THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

"Thank  you  for  the  offer  of  an  introduction;  but 
Gould,  upon  my  word,  I  am  in  want  of  ready  money." 

"My  dear  fellow,  so  am  I." 

"I  must  have  it!" 

"  Indeed,  I  hope  you  will  not  be  disappointed." 

Gould  leaned  back  as  he  spoke,  rested  his  head  on 
the  crimson  curve  of  his  cozy  chair,  and  emitted  a  soft 
curl  of  smoke  from  his  finely-cut  lips. 

"Now,  Gould,  this  is  too  bad,"  said  Ward,  impa- 
patiently.  "  Remember,  this  is  a  debt  of  honor." 

"  Can't  help  it,  my  dear  fellow  !  Haven't  got  ready 
cash  enough  to  pay  for  these  segars  ;  to  say  nothing  of 
the  wine,  and  so  forth,  that  a  fellow  must  have." 

"  But  there  is  your  uncle.     He  refuses  you  nothing." 

"Hark!  that  is  his  step;  speak  of—  Ah!  my 
dear  uncle,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  Called  at  the 
house  this  morning,  but  you  were  out." 

The  person  who  entered  to  receive  this  greeting,  was 
the  old  man  whom  we  have  seen  at  his  dinner  in  that 
solitary  house,  and  who  afterward  gave  so  much  happi 
ness  to  the  soldier's  orphans  in  the  fair.  He  entered 
the  room  with  a  grim  smile  on  his  face,  and  stood  near 
the  door  a  moment  with  his  brows  bent,  and  his  sharp 
eyes  turned  upon  the  sumptuous  disarray  of  that  dinner- 
table.  The  smile  on  his  thin  lip  turned  to  a  sneer  as  he 
took  in  the  picture.  Tiny  birds,  with  their  bones  half 
picked ;  fragments  of  a  delicious  dessert ;  and  all  that 
rich  coloring  of  half-drained  wine-glasses,  gave  an  idea 
of  satiety  at  a  glance,  which  brought  out  the  disagreeable 
points  in  the  old  man's  character,  and  brought  the  color 
to  Gould's  face. 

"Take  this  seat,  uncle,"  cried  Gould,  starting  up, 


THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.        101 

eager  to  divert  the  old  man's  attention  from  the  debris 
of  his  little  feast.  "  You  will  find  it  comfortable.  Let 
me  take  charge  of  your  hat  and  cane." 

The  old  man  looked  at  his  nephew  with  a  sharp  gleam 
of  the  eye,  and  drawing  a  chair  to  the  table,  laid  his  hat 
and  cane  on  the  carpet.  Then  he  took  up  the  glasses, 
one  after  another,  and  tasted  their  contents  with  great 
deliberation,  occasionally  pouring  a  little  from  the  bot 
tles  and  decanters,  while  he  .muttered  to  himself,  "  Cham 
pagne,  Burgundy,  sherry,  claret,  old  Madeira,  and  the 
Lord  knows  what,  with  roasted  canary  birds,  and  peaches 
of  ice  by  way  of  substantiate.  Wholesome  eating  for  a 
young  man." 

Gould  pushed  his  chair  away,  and  came  to  the  table ; 
all  his  indolent  composure  gone,  and  with  the  hot-red 
of  a  school-boy  on  his  handsome  cheeks. 

"  Shall  I  ring,  uncle  ?  Will  you  try  one  of  these  birds 
served  hot  ?  They  are  very  fine." 

"No;  thank  you,  nephew;  they  are  too  expensive 
eating  for  an  old  fellow  like  me." 

"  Too  expensive  for  you,  uncle — the  idea  amuses  me." 

"  Remember,  young  gentleman,"  said  the  old  million 
aire,  with  grim'  pleasantry,  "  that  I  have  no  rich  uncle 
to  depend  on.  A  moderate  glass  of  port,  or  claret,  now 
and  then,  is  as  much  as  I  can  afford.  But,  then,  it  is  so 
different  with  you.".  » 

Gould  bent  over  the  old  man's  chair,  and  whispered 
with  deprecating  humility, 

"  Uncle,  don't  be  so  hard  upon  me  before  my  friend." 

"Your  friend!"  repeated  the  old  man,  aloud.  "So 
this  is  one  of  your  friends.  Let  me  take  a  good  look  at 
him." 


102  THE     SOLDI  Ell'S    ORPHANS. 

With  cruel  deliberation  he  took  out  a  pair  of  gold 
spectacles,  fitted  them  to  his  eyes,  and  searched  Ward 
from  head  to  foot  with  one  of  his  sharp,  prolonged 
glances.  The  young  fellow  colored,  winced,  and  at  last 
turned  fairly  around  in  his  chair,  muttering,  "  Hang  the 
old  fellow  I  his  eyes  seize  on  me  like  a  pair  of  pincers." 

"  Gould,"  said  the  uncle,  folding  up  his  glasses,  and 
shutting  them  in  their  steel  case  with  a  loud  snap  of  the 
spring,  "  Gould,  I  congratulate  you." 

"What  for,  uncle?" 

"  That  this  exquisite  young  gentleman  is  your  friend. 
He  does  credit  to  your  choice— great  credit.  Such 
honors  do  not  often  drop  into  our  humble  way.  Sir,  I 
am  your  servant." 

The  old  satirist  arose,  and  making  a  profound  bow, 
sat  down  again,  where  he  could  see  Ward's  face  burning 
like  fire. 

"  I  found  your  note  at  the  counting-house,  Gould, 
speaking  of  the  serious  nature  of  your  illness,  and  came 
up  to  see  if  a  consultation  of  doctors  would  be  neces 
sary." 

"  That  was  written  this  morning  when  I  was  seriously 
ill.  You  remember,  Ward?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  Upon  my  honor,  sir,  Gould  was  desperate 
with— with  a— that  is,  neuralgia  in  the  head.  You 
would  have  been  quite  concerned  about  him.  We  tried 
chloroform— a  great  thing  that  chloroform.  Did  you 
ever  try  it,  sir?" 

"So  the  chloroform  cured  my  nephew.  I  am  de 
lighted  to  hear  it.  That  is  it  upon  the  mantle-piece,  I 
dare  say.  Give  me  a  little." 

The  old  tormentor  pointed  to  a  flask  of  Bohemian 


glass,  dashed  with  gold,  that  stood  on  the  mantle- 
piece. 

"That,  uncle?  Oh!  that  is  extract  of  violet.  It 
sometimes  serves  to  carry  off  a  headache  better  than 
any  thing  else.  Will  you  try  it?" 

The  old  man  held  out  his  hand  for  the  bottle ;  took  a 
great  red  silk  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and  emptied 
half  the  extract  into  its  folds,  scenting  the  room  like  a 
violet  bank  in  Ma}r. 

"Your  note,  Gould,  asked  for  money — an  unusual 
thing ;  so  unusual,  that  I  brought  the  check  in  my 
pocket." 

At  the  mention  of  a  check,  Ward  started  round  in  his 
chair,  and  fixed  a  hungry  glance  on  that  hard,  old  face. 
A  check !  His  thousand  dollars  might  not  be  so  very 
far  off,  after  all. 

Gould  bent  eagerly  over  his  uncle's  chair. 

"  You  are  too  good,  uncle.     I — I " 

"  Oh  !  not  at  all,  Gould.  You  deserve  all  that  I  am 
going  to  do  for  you — richly  deserve  it.  Give  me  a  light 
while  I  sign  the  check ;  thank  you.  There  now,  see 
how  careless.  You  haven't  a  stamp  about  you,  I  fear." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  cried  Ward.     "  Here  is  one." 

He  reached  over  in  handing  the  stamp,  and  caught  a 
glance  at  the  amount. 

"  By  Jove !  it's  for  two  thousand !"  he  said,  inly. 
"  Gould  shall  go  halves  before  I  leave  him." 

The  old  man  smiled  one  of  his  iron  smiles  as  he 
pressed,  the  stamp  in  its  place.  Then  he  signed  the 
check,  with  a  broad,  old  fashioned  flourish  under  the  name. 

"  Will  that  do  ?"  he  asked,  lifting  his  face  to  that  of 
his  nephew,  who  bent  over  his  shoulder  delighted. 


104        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Is  the  figure  large  enough  ?" 

"  Oh,  uncle!     It  is  more  than  I  dared  hope  for." 

"  Not  at  all,  Gould.  Remember,  I  filled  it  in  thinking 
you  ill.  No,  no  !  do  not  put  out  the  taper  yet.  What 
a  pretty  stand  you  have  for  it ;  filigree  gold,  as  I  am  a 
miserly  old  sinner.  That  makes  a  pretty  blaze,  doesn't 
it?" 

Gould  made  a  snatch  at  the  check,  but  it  was  in  a 
light  blaze  ;  and  the  old  man  held  it  till  it  burned. down 
to  his  fingers,  and  fell  in  black  flakes  over  the  taper,  and 
the  daintily  warm  gold  that  held  it. 

Ward  jumped  up  from  his  chair  with  an  oath  on  his 
lips.  Gould  turned  white,  and  staggered  back. 

"  Uncle,  uncle  !  I  owed  every  dollar  of  that  money," 
he  cried  out.  "  My  honor  is  at  stake." 

The  old  man  picked  up  his  hat  and  cane  with  silent 
deliberation. 

"  Sir.  Sir,  I  say !  Gould  owes  me  half  the  money ; 
and,  by  Jove !  I  must  have  it,"  cried  Ward. 

"Owes  you!     What  for  ?" 

This  curt  question  made  the  young  gambler  start  and 
bethink  himself. 

"  What  for  ?  What  for  ?  Why  for  money  I  lent  him 
the  other  night  for  the  Soldier's  Fair.  That  nephew  of 
yours,  sir,  is  one.  of  the  most  benevolent,  tender-hearted 
fellows  that  the  sun  ever  shone  on.  That  night  he  met 
me  in  front  of  the  fair,  really  distressed. 

" '  Ward,'  said  he — my  name  is  Ward,  sir.  Goulcl 
forgot  to  present  me,  but  Ward  is  my  name — '  Ward, 
said  he,  '  I've  just  done  a  foolish  thkig.  You'll  say  so, 
when  I  tell  you  what  it  is ' 

"  Said  I,  interrupting  him,  '  I'll  lav  five  to  one  that 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        105 

you've  been  at  your  old  tricks — emptying  both  pockets 
to  help  some  miserable  soldier's  family  out  of  trouble. 
But  it's  in  you,  this  tender-heartedness;  and  all  I  can 
say  will  never  drive  it  out.' 

"  '  No,'  says  Gould,  '  you're  wrong  there.  It  is  no 
family  this  time  ;  but  you  know  a  draft  has  been  made.' 

"  '  Yes,  I  know,'  said  I,  '  and  you  have  been  drawn.' 

"  '  Wrong  again,'  says  your  nephew.  '  But  every  man 
owes  a  life  to  his  country.  I  cannot  serve ;  it  would 
break  my  dear  uncle's  heart  should  I  be  killed  ;  and  he 
is  too  good  a  man  for  me  to  give  him  one  moment's 
pain.'  I  beg  your  pardon,  Gould,  for  saying  this;  but 
truth  will  out,  and  your  uncle  will  forgive  me. 

"  '  Well,  what  have  you  done  ?'  said  I. 

:t '  Simply  this,'  replied  Gould,  blushing  like  a  girl. 
1  I've  given  every  cent  that  I  have  on  hand  to  a  brave 
fellow  to  take  my  place  in  the  ranks  and  fight  my  bat 
tles.  It's  a  mean  way  of  doing  things  ;  but  I  could  not 
leave  my  uncle,  not — not  even  for  my  country ;  and 
Burns  was  determined  to  go.'  " 

"Who?  What  name  did  you  say?"  cried  the  old 
man,  grasping  his  cane  hard. 

"  Burns,  sir.    Burns  was  the  name  I  used." 

"A  man  who  left  two  boys,  a  young  girl,  and  an  old 
woman  behind  to  suffer  while  he  fought  ?  Was  that  the 
person  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  no  doubt  of  it.  Gould  would  never  tell 
3'ou  of  it ;  but  these  were  the  facts." 

"  How  long  was  this  ago  ?" 

"  I — I — how  long  was  it,  Gould  ?  I  know  when  you 
told  me,  but  it  was  before  that." 


108         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  I  cannot  say.  All  this  is  unauthorized,  sir.  I  never 
dreamed  that  he  would  tell  this  story.  Indeed— 

•'  I  cannot  say  the  exact  time,"  cut  in  Ward  ;  "and 
he  won't.  But  it  was  long  enough  ago  to  keep  him  in 
hot  water  month  after  month.  You  have  been  very  lib 
eral  to  him,  I  know,  sir ;  but  it  has  all  gone  that  way. 
'  Soldiers'  widows,  soldiers'  children — they  must  be  fed,' 
he  argues.  'What  if  these  things  do  plunge  me  in 
debt ;  if  my  uncle  knew,  he  would  not  condemn  me.' 

"  '  Then  tell  him,'  said  I ;  '  tell  him  at  once,  and  re 
lieve  yourself  from  all  embarrassment.' 

"  '  No,'  he  said,  '  that  would  be  making  him  responsi 
ble;  that  would  be  forcing  my  charities' on  him.  Only 
help  me,  as  a  friend  should,  and  I  will  find  my  way  out 
of  this  trouble.  He  is  generous — munificent — this  good 
uncle  of  mine,  let  men  say  what  they  please.  Some  day 
he  will  give  me  all  the  money  I  want ;  and  while  he 
thinks  that  I  spend  it  in  extravagance,  perhaps,  I  shall 
have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  where  it  goes,  and  who 
it  helps.' 

"  The  very  day  that  your  nephew  told  me  this  I  lent 
him  a  thousand  dollars ;  five  hundred  of  that  sum  went 
for  subscriptions  in  less  than  an  hour.  The  rest  would 
have  been  given  to  a  family  that  composed  the  most 
touching  picture  of  distress  that  I  ever  saw — but  I  pre 
vented  it.  I  would  not  let  him  go  home  penniless." 

"  Was  it  a  tableau  within  the  fair  ?  Did  an  old  wo 
man — a  lady,  every  inch  of  her — sit  in  the  picture? 
Was  there  a  3Toung  girl,  and  two  boys — bright,  hand 
some  little  fellows — crouching  at  her  feet?" 

The  old  man  asked  these   questions   eagerly.      His 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        107 

hand  worked  around  the  top  of  his  staff;  his  eyes  kin 
dled  under  those  bent  brows. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Yes,  that  is  the  very  family." 

"And  you  gave  the  father  of  this  family  a  thousand 
dollars  when  he  went  to  the  wars,  Gould  ?" 

Gould  shook  his  head.  "  I  did  not  say  so,  uncle. 
I  never  would  have  told  you  so." 

Ward  broke  in  upon  him  with  breathless  haste. 

"  But  he  did  it,  sir— he  did  it." 

"  I  saw  this  family.  I  was  at  the  fair  that  night," 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  touch  of  pathos  in  his  voice. 
"  Can  you  tell  me  where  they  live  ?" 

"  No,  I  cannot.  Doubtless  they  have  been  moving 
from  place  to  place  since  then,  as  poverty  sent  them." 

"  But  with  that  money  they  should  not  have  been  so 
poor,"  said  the  old  man  with  a  return  of  keen  intelli 
gence. 

"  But  it  did  not  go  to  them,  sir,"  said  Ward,  hastily. 
"This  man  Burns  was  deep  in  debt,  and  the  money 
went  to  clear  him." 

"Ward!  Ward!"  exclaimed  Gould,  starting  up; 
"this  is  too  much.  I  will  not  permit  it." 

"  Be  silent,  Gould  ! — be  silent !  I  ought  to  know  this. 
You  should  have  told  me  yourself;  perhaps  I  should 
have  been  glad  to  help  you,"  interposed  the  uncle,  with 
strange  gentleness  in  his  voice.  "  I  may  condemn  such 
extravagance  as  this.  I  do  condemn  and  repudiate  it 
utterly.  Extravagance  is  always  wicked,  coarse,  un 
bearable,  I  was  angry " 

"  Not  with  your  nephew,  I  trust,  for  that  which  is 
altogether  my  fault,"  interposed  Ward.  "  I  confess  to 
it,  my  tastes  are  ruinously  luxurious.  Gould  would 


108         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

never  have  thought  of  any  thing  so  absurd ;  but  I  was 
lonely,  and  asked  leave  to  share  his  parlor  awhile.  The 
unfortunate  dinner  was  served  by  my  order,  and  at  my 
expense.  As  for  the  pretty  gimcracks,  it  is  my  fancy. 
I  like  to  have  such  things  around  me.  But,  my  dear 
sir,  you  must  not  think  me  effeminate  and  worthless, 
for  all  that." 

The  old  man's  face  brightened  wonderfully  after  this 
speech.  He  dropped  his  cane  and  placed  his  hat  on  the 
carpet  once  more. 

"  Bring  back  the  pen  and  ink !  Give  me  another 
stamp  !  Here,  Gould,  take  that.  But,  remember,  find 
out  where  this  family  lives.  I  wish  to  know — I  must 
know." 

Gould  took  the  check,  which  rattled  like  a  dead  leaf 
in  the  old  man's  hand. 

"  Uncle  !  uncle !"  he  said,  "  I  ought  not  to  take  this ; 
I  have  no  right." 

The  old  man  snatched  up  his  hat  and  cane,  while  these 
honest  words  were  on  his  nephew's  lips,  and  left  the 
room. 

When  he  was  gone,  Ward  snatched  the  check  from 
Gould,  and  leaping  on  the  seat  of  his  chair,  brandished 
it  on  high. 

"  What  author  ever  got  so  much  for  a  single  romance, 
I  wonder!"  he  cried.  "I  say,  Gould,  I  must  turn  my 
attention  to  literature,  or  the  stage.  Did  ever  a  lie  out 
of  whole  cloth  tell  so  famously.  Pour  out  bumpers,  my 
fine  fellow,  and  let  us  drink  the  old  fellow's  health !" 

"Be  silent,  sir!"  Gould's  voice  trembled  with  pas 
sion.  There  was  too  much  good  in  him  for  a  relish  of 
such  companionship,  when  it  took  that  form  of  broad 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS,         109 

dishonesty.     "  Be  silent,  sir  !  if  you  would  not  have  me 
hate  you,  and  myself  also." 

With  these  hot  words  the  young  men  parted. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

BRAVE   YOUNG    HEARTS. 

THE  orphan  brothers  sat  together  under  the  shadow 
of  a  garden  wall,  talking  with  earnest  energy,  as  if 
their  young  lives  were  in  the  subject  under  discussion. 
A  tender  sadness  lay  on  their  faces  ;  tears  now  and 
then  broke  through  their  words  ;  and  more  than  once 
their  small  hands  clasped  lovingly,  as  if  companionship 
gave  sweetness  even  to  grief.  A  carrige  drove  by  as 
they  talked,  scattering  drops  of  mud  on  the  sleeve  of 
Joseph's  jacket.  Robert  brushed  it  off  with  great  care, 
and  patted  the  child  on  his  shoulder  in  finishing. 

' "  Now  you  see  how  it  is,  Joe,  you  and  I  are  the  men 
of  the  family.  Grandma  is  splendid  at  mending  and 
darning,  and  making  things  go  a  long  way ;  but  she 
can't  earn  money.  So  it  all  conies  on  sister  Anna. 
Isn't  she  a  beautiful  darling  ?  Wasn't  she  stupendous 
that  night  in  the  turban  and  red  velvet  jacket  ?" 

"  She's  always  good  and  handsome,"  said  Joseph, 
with  touching  simplicity  ;  "  but  I  like  her  best  in  that 
brown  dress  and  the  straw  bonnet.  She  didn't  quite 
seem  like  our  sister  in  the  other  things." 

"  But  she  outshone  every  one  of  them,  Joseph." 


110         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Yes,  I  know ;  but  yet  she  wasn't  exactly  like  our 
sister  Anna." 

"  I  was  proud  of  her.  It  did  me  good  to  walk  by  her 
side.  I  tell  you,  Joseph,  Anna  was  born  for  a  lady." 

"  So  was  grandma.     She  ^s  a  lady." 

"  She's  a  dear,  old  blessed  grandma,  she  is  !"  cried 
Robert.  "If  it  hadn't  been  for  her  my  heart  would 
have  burst.  It  was  wonderful  how  she  quieted  us  all 
down.  I  wonder  if  the  angels  are  more  still  and  sweet 
than  she  is  ?  Oh,  Joseph  !  it  isn't  many  soldiers'  chil 
dren  that  have  a  woman  like  that  to  comfort  them  when 
bad  news  comes  ;  but  we  came  out  here  all  alone  to  have 
a  sort  of  private  convention  about  things  in  general. 
As  I  was  saying,  Anna  is  too  pretty  for  a  working-girl ; 
men  turn  round  and  look  at  her  in  the  street  when  she 
goes  out.  I've  seen  it,  and  it  made  me  so  mad  that  I've 
longed  to  knock  them  down.  Once  I  did  stamp  on  a 
big  fellow's  boots,  and  it  did  me  good  to  hear  him  cry 
out,  '  Oh !'  He  never  knew  why  it  was  done  ;  but  I 
knew,  and  his  Oh  !  made  me  dance  with  joy  on  the  pave 
ment.  What  business  have  strangers  to  be  looking  at 
her?" 

"  She  doesn't  mind  'em — she  doesn't  know  it  herself," 
said  Joseph,  lifting  his  soft  eyes  appealingly,  as  if  some 
one  had  been  blaming  him.  "  She  never  looks  up,  nor 
seems  to  notice." 

"  I  know  that.  Of  course,  she  doesn't.  I'm  not  say 
ing  she  does  ;  but  she's  very,  very  pretty,  Joseph — too 
pretty  for  a  poor  man's  child  ;  and  now  that  she's  only 
a  poor  soldier's  orphan,  who  will  take  care  of  her,  if  we 
don't?" 

"But  I  am  so  small,  I  shouldn't  even  dare  to  stamp 

V 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         Ill 

on  a  big  fellow's  boots.  It  isn't  her  fault 'if  she's  so 
pretty,  you  know,  Robert.  I  dare  say  she'd  help  it  if 
she  could." 

"  This  isn't  exactly  an  idea  of  mine,"  answered  Rob 
ert.  "  I  never  should  have  had  the  sense  to  think  of  it, 
but  I  heard  father  grieve  about  Anna  being  so  hand 
some  before  he  went  away  to  that  glorious  death  of  his  ! 
It  troubled  him  then — and  it  troubles  me  now." 

"  Still  I  like  to  see  her  so  pretty,"  said  Joseph,  smil 
ing,  "it  makes  my  heart  swell  here." 

Joseph  put  one  hand  on  his  breast,  and  sighed,  as 
sensitive  people  will,  over  a  remembrance  of  beauty  in 
any  thing. 

"  Well,  brother,  it  is  natural.  I  love  grandma  for 
her  beauty,  too.  Other  people,  I  dare  say,  think  her  a 
little,  old  woman ;  but  I  know  there  is  something  more 
than  that,  just  as  I  feel  when  a  rose  is  near  by  its  scent. 
How  lovely  she  looked  that  night  when  we  knelt  around 
her !  Anna  is  pretty — but  grandma  looks  so  good. 
Her  beauty  seems  to  have  turned  to  light,  which  shines 
from  her  eyes  and  makes  her  old  mouth  so  lovely.  I 
can't  just  say  what  I  mean,  Joseph,  but  there  is  some 
thing  about  grandma  that  is  sweeter  than  beauty." 

Joseph  had  lifted  his  young  face  to  that  of  his  more 
ardent  brother,  with  a  look  of  tender  interest  in  all  that 
he  was  saying  that  seemed  beyond  his  years. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  feel  that  when  grand 
ma  looks  at  me.  Besides,  she  never  hurts  one.  Her 
hand  is  so  soft  and  light,  it  seems  like  a  bird's  wing 
brushing  you.  Then  she  steps  so  softly.  Dear,  old 
grandma!" 

The  boys  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  and  saw  dimly 


112         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

though  unbidden  tears,  of  which  the  elder  was  in 
stantly  ashamed. 

"  Why,  Joseph,  this  is  children's  play.  We  came  here 
to  talk  like  men,  not  whimper  like  babies.  Wipe  tip- 
wipe  up !  that's  a  brave  little  fellow,  and  let  us  go  to 
business  at  once." 

"  Well,  I'm  ready,"  answered  Joseph,  wiping  his  eyes. 
"  What  shall  we  say  next  ?" 

"  Joseph,  these  two  lovely  women— for  they  are  lovely, 
we  both  agree  on  that— have  got  to  live.  All  hopes 
from  our  brave  father  is  dead  and  gone." 

"  I  know  it !     Oh  !  I  know  it !" 

"  Don't  cry,  Joseph— that  is,  if  you  can  possibly  help 
it ;  but  listen.  You  and  I  must  support  the  family." 

"  You  and  I  ?  Oh,  Robert  1  think  what  a  little  shaver 
I  am!" 

"  Yet,  I've  thought  of  that  over  and  over  again ;  but 
in  this  world  there  is  something  that  every  one  can  do. 
Think  how  soon  little  chickens  begin  to  scatch  up  worms 
for  themselves." 

"Yes,  Robert;  but  then  the  worms  are  about,  and 
they  know  where  to  find  'em." 

"  So  is  money  about,  and  we  must  learn  how  to  find 
it." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  Studying  double  lessons  won't 
bring  money,  or  I'd  get  them  every  night  of  my  life." 

"  No,"  said  Robert;  "  we  can  have  no  more  school." 

"  No  more  school  ?" 

"  Both  of  us  must  go  to  work  in  earnest." 

"  I  will  be  in  earnest — but  how?" 

"Joseph  Burns,  I'm  going  to  make  a  newsboy  of 
you." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         113 

"A  newsboy  of  me?" 

Joseph  was  absolutely  frightened,  his  eyes  grew  large, 
his  lips  trembled.  "  Of  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  little  brother.  It  must  be  a  splendid  business. 
I  saw  one  of  those  chaps  with  a  whole  jacket  full  of 
money;  besides,  it's  a  healthy  occupation,  and  leads  into 
a  literary  way  of  life." 

"  I—I  would  try  it,  Robert,  if  I  only  knew  how  to 
begin,"  faltered  the  gentle  child,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"  Begin  !     Why  you'd  learn  in  no  time." 

"Would  I?" 

"  Of  course  ;  why  not  ?— and  bring  home  your  fifty 
cents  a  day,  clear  profit,  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  I— I'll  try,  of  course.     I'll  do  my  best." 

"Why,  how  you  shake!  Do  keep  that  poor  little 
mouth  still.  Nobody's  going  to  hurt  you,  Joseph, 
dear." 

"  But — but  have  I  got  voice  enough  ?" 

"  Voice  !  You  little  trooper,  I  should  think  you  had. 
Can't  you  yell,  oh  !  no  ?" 

Joseph  laughed  through  his  tears. 

"I'd  like  to  do  it." 

"  Well,  that's  settled.  As  for  the  schooling,  grand 
ma  is  a  lady,  and  could  teach,  if  they  ever  let  old  ladies 
do  that.  Why,  she's  grand  in  figures,  and  writes  beauti 
fully.  You  shall  study  with  her  night  and  morning 

so  will  I.     Work  shall  not  cheat  us  out  of  our  educa 
tion,  you  know." 

Joseph  began  to  brighten  up  considerably  after  this 
suggestion.     He  had  his  dreams,  poor  boy,  and  loved 
books  with  a  passionate  longing.     The  very  idea  that 
7 


114          THE    SOLDIER'S    o  R  r  n  A  N  s . 

boys  sold  a  species  of  literature,  went  far  to  reconcile 
him  with  their  noisy  pursuit. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "that  would  be  almost 
like  school." 

"  Besides  all  that,"  persisted  Robert,  "  a  boy  that  has 
learned  to  read  and  write,  who  can  cipher  a  little,  and 
so  on,  must  be  a  poor  creature  if  he  can't  teach  himself. 
Reading  and  spelling  is  the  key  which  unlocks  every 
thing  else." 

"Besides,  I  can  read  the  newspapers  at  odd  times,"' 

said  Joseph. 

"  Certainly  you  can.  But  I  tell  you  what,  Joe,  if 
there  comes  news  of  a  battle,  and  any  poor  boy  looks 
at  you  longingly,  hand  out  a  paper  for  nothing.  I  know 
what  it  is — I  know  what  it  is." 

"I'd  do  that — you  know  I  would.  But,  Robert,  I 
wish  you  were  going  along.  How  we  would  make  the 
streets  ring." 

"  I'm  thinking  of  something  else,  Joseph.  If  that 
fails,  perhaps  I  shall  take  the  lead  with  you." 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  brother?" 

"  You  know  that  old  man,  Joseph  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know— how  can  you  and  I  ever  forget  him?" 
answered  Joseph,  glancing  proudly  down  at  his  new 
clothes. 

"  I  mean  to  offer  myself  at  his  place  of  business  as 
an  errand-boy,  or  something  like  that.  I  think  he 
rather  liked  us,  Joseph." 

"Yes,  he  did  ;  I'm  sure  of  that." 

"Well,  I  shall  only  ask  for  work." 

"  So  I  would,  Robert ;  and  I'll  come  down  every  clay 
with  the  papers,  you  know." 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        115 

"  That'll  be  jolly.  Hark !  there  comes  a  fellow  along. 
What  a  voice  he  has  I  Splendid  business  for  the  lungs. 
I'll  make  a  man  of  you,  Joe." 

The  newsboy  came  up  the  side-walk,  calling  out  his 
papers,  and  looking  lazily  from  window  to  window. 
He  had  nothing  very  special  that  day,  and  was  taking 
the  world  easy,  scorning  to  lay  out  all  his  powers  for  less 
than  a  battle  of  fifty  thousand  strong.  He  came  op 
posite  the  two  boys,  who  were  watching  him  so  earnestly, 
and,  thinking  that  they  might  be  in  want  of  a  paper, 
crossed  over  to  where  they  sat. 

"Want  a  paper — morning  Ledger?" 
"  No,  no !  we  were  only  talking  about  papers  ;  not  in 
the  least  wishing  to  buy  them,"  said  Joseph,  blushing 
crimson. 

"  Oh  !  that's  all,"  said  the  boy,  settling  the  bundle  of 
papers  under  his  arm,  and  resting  one  shoulder  against 
the  wall.  "  Seen  you  afore,  haven't  I,  my  jolly  rover  ? 
Wanted  me  to  sell  you  a  paper  for  half  price  one  night  ? 
I  remember  them  eyes  of  yourn.  Jerusalem,  didn't 
they  look  wild!" 

"  I — I  was  so  anxious,  so " 

"  Don't  talk  about  it.  I  feel  the  blood  biling  into  my 
face  only  with  the  thought.  I  never  was  so  mean  before, 
and  don't  expect  to  be  agin.  Will  you  take  half  a 
dozen  Ledgers  now,  and  make  up  ?  I  went  back  to 
give  you  one.  You  won't  believe  me,  but  I  did— you'd 
gone,  though.  Didn't  get  a  wink  of  sleep  that  night, 
I  felt  so  mean.  <  What  if  his  father  was  in  that  battle  ?'» 
says  I  to  myself.  <  What  if  he  wanted  to  look  over  the 
list,  and  hadn't  got  another  copper  ?  You're  a  beast,' 
said  I  to  myself;  'a  brute  beast  of  the  meanest  kind! 


116        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

A  generous  Newfoundland  dog,  now,  would  a  given  that 
boy  the  paper  without  a  cent ;  but  you — oh  !  get  away, 
a  kennel  is  too  good  for  you!'  That  was  the  way  I 
pitched  into  myself  all  night  long  ;  but  I  got  over  it. 
Business  was  good,  and  it  drove  sich  idees  out  of  my 
head.  But  the  sight  of  you  here,  huddled  agin  the  wall, 
like  two  rabbits  in  a  box,  riled  me  up  agin  myself 
again.  If  you  don't  want  the  paper,  suppose  we  go 
round  the  corner  and  pitch  into  a  pile  of  oysters. 
Sales  are  slack,  and  a  feller  may  as  well  enjoy  himself. 
Besides,  I  shall  feel  amost  friendly  with  myself  again 
if  you'll  let  me  treat  once.  Precious  nice  mince-pies  to 
be  had  if  oysters  don't  suit  that  little  shaver,  and  sich 
peanuts." 

Robert  got  up  and  took  Joseph  by  the  hand.  "  Yes, 
we  will  go,"  he  said.  "  My  brother,  here,  is  thinking 
of  the  literary  business  for  himself;  and  I'd  like  to  talk 
with  some  one  who  understands  it." 

"  The  what?"  asked  the  newsboy,  opening  his  mouth 
in  vague  astonishment.  "  What  business  did  you  say 
he  was  thinking  of?" 

"  Selling  newspapers." 

"  That  delicate  little  trooper,  with  eyes  like  a  girl's, 
and  lips  that  tremble  if  you  look  at  him.  He'd  never 
do ! — never!" 

"  But  he  is  strong ;  runs  like  a  deer,  and  shouts  like 
any  thing,"  said  Robert. 

The  newsboy  faced  Joseph  squarely,  and  examined 
him  with  keen  attention. 

"  Handsome  as  a  picture,"  he  muttered;  "and  looks 
as  if  he  could  run.  Just  give  a  holler,  my  boy ;  I  want 
to  know  liow  far  a  gentleman  could  hear  you  if  he  was 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        117 

shut  up  and   shaving  himself  for   church  on  Sunday 
morning." 

Joseph  stood  up,  half  frightened  to  death,  and  gave 
out  a  dismal  cry,  while  his  face  turned  from  crimson  to 
white  in  the  attempt. 

"  Don't  be  afraid,  we  ain't  a  college  faculty,  we  aint 
There's  voice  enough  in  the  little  codger's  chest,  if  he 
wasn't  too  scared  to  let  it  out.     Now  let's  see  your  fist 
clenched — savagely,  remember." 

Joseph  clenched  his  right  hand  into  as  formidable  a 
fist  as  he  could  make  of  the  delicate  material,  and  held 
it  out. 

"Whew I"  exclaimed  the  newsboy,  with  a  comical 
glance  at  the  tiny  fist.  "  Wouldn't  knock  down  a 
canary  bird  ;  but  mine  will — so  what's  the  use  talking." 

"  It's  small,  but  I'm  strong,"  Joseph  burst  forth, 
"Ask  Robert  if  I  haven't  pummelled  him  splendidly. 
If  an}^body  was  to  hurt  him,  now,  wouldn't  I  fight  I" 

"It  ain't  to  be  expected  that  you  could  do  a  great 
deal  among  the  boys  ;  but  they're  generous,  as  a  common 
thing,  and  only  pitch  into  fellers  that  can  pitch  back ; 
besides,  I'm  on  hand,  and  they  know  me." 

"And  you'd  be  kind  to  him  ?"  said  Robert.  "  He's 
all  the  brother  I've  got ;  and  you  see  what  a  tender, 
nice  little  fellow  he  is.  We've  got  a  sister  and  a  grand- 
mother  to  support,  and  we  mean  to  do  it,  Joe  and  I  do. 
Don't  we  Joe  ?" 

Joseph  lifted  his  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes  to 
the  tall  newsboy. 

"  Yes,  we  mean  to  do  it,  and  we  will,"  he  said,  with 
gentle  firmness. 

The  tall  boy  threw  up  his  bundle  of  papers,  and 


118  THE     SOLDIEli'S     O  ETHAN'S. 

caught  it  again  as  it  whirled  downward,  in  evidence  of 
his  warm  approval. 

"  That's  the  time  o'day  1  Here's  the  right  sort  of 
stuff  done  up  in  little  parcels,"  he  shouted.  "  Now  look 
here,  you  feller,"  he  added,  turning  to  Robert,  "  I'll 
enter  into  a  sort  of  partnership  with  you,  and  we'll  join 
hands  on  it  at  once.  I'll  take  this  little  chap  under  my 
wing,  and  set  him  a  going  in  the  "business.  How  much 
money  can  you  put  in  ?" 

"  Three  dollars,"  answered  Robert. 

"  That  isn't  a  stunning  capital ;  but  then  I  began  and 
set  myself  up  on  fifty  cents — but  that  was  in  specie 
times.  What  I  was  going  to  say  is  this,  I'll  stand  by 
this  little  feller  tooth  and  nail.  I'll  take  him  down  to 
the  press-rooms  myself,  and  get  his  stock  put  up ;  and 
if  any  of  the  old  stagers  attempt  to  hustle  him,  or  sich 
like,  because  he  wears  bright  buttons,  and  looks  like  a 
gentleman's  son,  let  'em  try  it,  that's  all.  They've  felt 
the  weight  of  these  mud-grapplers  afore  this,  and  know 
how  much  there  is  in  'em.  Why,  I've  been  in  the  busi 
ness  three  years  ;  but  these  extra  times  is  a  wearing  me 
out,  and  my  run  grows  longer  and  broader  every  day. 
He  shall  have  a  part  of  it — all  the  fancy  work.  Why 
them  eyes,  looking  up  to  the  windows  where  ladies  sit 
in  their  muslin  dresses  and  ribbons  in  the  afternoon, 
would  set  'em  to  beckoning  you  up  the  steps  like  fifty. 
They  don't  take  to  tall  fellows  like  me,  as  women  ought 
to.  Yes,  yes  1  I'll  give  you  the  fancy  work,  and  no  mis 
take.  My  I  what  purty  girls  I've  seen  looking  out  of 
the  parlor  doors  when  some  gentleman  has  beckoned 
me  into  the  hall.  Molly  I  they'd  let  you  go  right  in— 
shouldn't  wonder  a  bit !" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN-S.        119 

«  I — I  should  rather  not,"  said  Joseph,  shrinking  mod 
estly  from  this  magnificent  idea.  "  Excepting  grandma 
and  Anna,  I  don't  know  much  about  ladies." 

"  Live  and  learn !  Live  and  learn !  I  only  wish  them 
eyes  and  that  face  belonged  to  me,  wouldn't  I  make  'em 
bring  in  the  coppers  and  five-cent  greenbacks.  But 
then  you  are  a  little  fellow,  and  don't  know  the  value 
of  such  things." 

"  I  only  want  to  earn  money  for  them,"  said  Joseph. 
"I'm  little,  and  don't -know  a  great  deal;  but  if  you 
will  be  kind  enough  to  let  me  run  with  you  a  day  or 
so,  then,  perhaps,  I  might  learn." 

"And  what  are  you  going  into?"  asked  the  newsboy, 
addressing  Robert. 

"  I — I  was  thinking  of  going  into  the  mercantile  way," 
answered  Robert,  blushing  crimson ;  "an  errand  boy, 
or  something  of  that  sort." 

"  Know  how  to  read  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes !" 

"Fine  print,  and  all?" 

"Yes,  all  kinds  of  print." 

"  You  don't  say  so.  Next  thing  you'll  be  telling  me 
that  you  can  write." 

"  Write  ?  Of  course  I  can !  Don't  I  look  old 
enough?" 

"  Old  enough  ?     Why  I'm  twice  your  size." 

"And  can't  write  ?"  inquired  Robert. 

"  Not  a  pot-hook ;  tried  once,  but  broke  down  on  the 
z's — couldn't  curl  'em  up  to  save  my  life ;  but  I  can 
count,  and  read  headings — and  that's  enough  for  the 
business.  But  you're  bound  to  be  a  gentleman,  any 
body  can  see  that ;  sich  an  edecation  isn't  to  be  flung 


120  THE     SOLDI  EIl'S     OKPHANS. 

away  on  the  street.  What  if  I  know  the  place  what 
would  suit  you?" 

"No,  you  don't  say  that?"  cried  Robert,  beaming 
with  hope. 

"  But  I  do,  though.  Gould  &  Co.  wants  a  boy.  I've 
got  acquainted  with  the  old  gentleman  within  the  last 
few  days.  He  buys  lots  of  papers — every  extra. 
Anxious  about  somebody,  I  reckon.  The  other  day 
he  came  after  me  full  chisel,  with  his  hat  off,  and  the 
wind  whistling  through  his  gray  hair  like  sixty.  The 
way  he  snatched  at  my  papers  and  pitched  a  dollar  bill 
into  rny  hand,  was  exciting.  Wouldn't  stop  for  the 
change — a  thing  I  never  knew  of  him  in  my  whole 
life — but  hurried  back,  and  shut  the  door  of  his  great, 
dark  house  with  a  bang." 

"  Poor  man  I"  said  Robert,  mournfully ;  "  perhaps  he 
had  a  son,  or  some  one,  in  the  army,  that  he  loved." 

"Just  as  likely  as  not,"  continued  the  newsboy,  "for, 
as  I  was  going  round  the  block  a  second  time,  he  came 
out  of  his  house  looking  as  white  as  a  ghost.  I  saw 
his  face  plain  by  the  street  lamp ;  and  he  went  off 
almost  upon  a  run,  like  a  crazy  man.  Something  had 
struck  him  right  on  the  heart,  I'm  sure  of  that.  But 
come  along,  if  you  have  a  mind  to  try  your  luck  with 
the  old  feller.  I'll  trust  this  little  shaver  with  my  pa 
pers  till  we  come  back." 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    OKPHAN.S.        121 
CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    NEWSBOY. 

LITTLE  Joseph  received  the  bundle  of  newspapers 
offered  to  him,  flushing  crimson  under  the  trust — and 
the  two  lads  went  off  together. 

"  Don't  go  off  the  block,"  said  the  newsboy,  looking 
over  his  shoulder.  "  Walk  up  and  down,  and  who  knows 
but  a  little  business  may  drop  in." 

Joseph  nodded,  smiled,  and  settled  the  bundle  of 
papers  under  his  arm ;  at  which  the  boy  gave  an  en 
couraging  flourish  of  the  hand,  and  disappeared  around 
the  corner ;  while  Robert  paused  a  moment,  and  sent 
more  than  one  anxious  glance  back  upon  his  brother. 

Joseph  waited  till  they  were  both  out  of  sight,  than 
gathered  up  his  courage  and  began  marching  up  and 
down  the  sidewalk  with  a  bold  step,  but  stopped  still, 
and  turned  his  eyes  away  in  dread  if  any  one  ap 
proached  him.  Once  or  twice  he  attempted  to  cry  out, 
but  that  was  when  no  one  was  within  hearing.  Even 
then  the  voice  fell  back  in  his  throat,  and  he  looked 
around  half  frightened  to  death,  terrified  lest  some  cus 
tomer  should  come  upon  him  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  dear  I  I  shall  never  do  it !  There  is  no  use  in 
trying  I"  he  muttered,  disconsolately.  "  If  it  was  only 
play,  now,  what  a  shout  I  could  give.  Goodness !  there 
comes  a  man  !  If  grandmother  was  only  here,  I  do  be 
lieve  I  should  hide  behind  her  dress.  But  there  isn't 
a  place,  and  he  comes  on  so  fast.  Dear  me  I" 

The  man  was,  indeed,  walking  fast,  and  seemed  a 
good  deal  excited.  Joseph  made  a  brave  attempt  at 


122        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

boldness,  and  marched  toward  him,  blushing  at  his  own 
audacity. 

"Ledger!  Dispatch!" 

The  words  broke  from  his  lips  in  a  frightened  cry ; 
he  trembled  all  over,  and  stood  still,  terrified  by  the 
sound,  faint  and  hoarse  as  it  was. 

The  very  singularity  of  his  cry  drew  the  young  man's 
attention,  and  he  turned  quickly. 

"  Give  me  a  paper,"  he  said,  taking  some  money  from 
his  pocket-book.  "Any  one— I  have  no  choice.  Why, 
what  a  young  thing  it  is — so  well  dressed,  too !  Selling 
newspapers  must  be  a  prosperous  business,  my  little 
man?" 

"  I I  haven't  got  a  cent  of  change.     What  shall  I 

do  ?"  cried  Joseph,  looking  wistfully  at  the  twenty-five 
cents  which  loomed  before  him.  "  Please,  sir,  I  never 
did  this  before,  and  don't  know  how." 

"  Never  did  it  before,"  cried  the  young  man,  smiling 
upon  the  lad.  "  I  thought  you  looked  above  the  busi 
ness.  Then  you  are  such  a  mere  baby ;  keep  the  money. 
By  the  way,  you  seem  a  sharp  little  fellow,  and  I  can 
put  you  in  the  way  of  earning  twice  that  amount." 

"  Can  you,  sir  ?  I'm  glad  of  that.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 
cried  the  boy,  all  in  a  glow  of  delight. 

"  Nothing  very  difficult.  Just  keep  along  this  garden- 
wall,  turn  the  corner,  and  you  will  see  the  house  it  be 
longs  to.  Watch  the  door  till  a  young  lady  in  a  brown 
merino  dress  and  straw  bonnet  comes  out ;  follow  her 
where  she  goes.  Be  sure  you  take  the  papers,  that  she 
may  not  think  it  strange ;  take  sharp  notice  of  the  house 
she  enters  ;  then  come  back  here  at  dusk,  and  I  will  give 
you  a  dollar  bill." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHAN.S.        123 

"A  greenback,  sir?" 

"Yes ;  a  new  greenback,  with  Mr.  Chase's  picture  on 
the  end." 

Joseph  gathered  up  his  papers  in  breathless  haste ; 
his  cheeks  glowed,  his  eyes  sparkled  with  delight. 

"  I'll  do  it — I'll  do  it  1"  All  at  once  his  countenance 
fell,  and  his  small  figure  drooped  in  abject  disappoint 
ment. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  he  said,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  These 
papers  belong  to  another  boy,  and  he  told  me  not  to 
leave  the  block." 

"  That's  unfortunate,"  said  the  young  man,  smiling  at 
Joseph's  evident  distress.  "  But  you  can  stand  at  the 
corner  and  tell  me  which  way  she  turns  ?' 

"Yes,  I  can  do  that." 

"Better  still,"  cried  the  young  man,  struck  by  a  sud 
den  idea.  "  She  had  a  parcel  in  her  hand,  and  appears 
as  if  she  took  in  work.  Speak  to  her  as  she  comes  out; 
tell  her  that  you  know  a  person  who  wants  some  fine 
sewing  done,  and  ask  her  where  you  shall  bring  it  to. 
She'll  trust  that  face,  no  fear  about  that.  So  you  shall 
earn  the  money,  and  keep  that  promise  about  leaving 
the  block." 

« I — I  should  be  a  little  ashamed  to  speak  to  a  strange 
lady,  sir." 

"  Oh,  nonsense !  She  isn't  exactly  a  lady,  you  know, 
only  a  sewing-girl.  So  there  need  be  no  trouble  about 
speaking  to  her ;  I  shouldn't  hesitate  to  do  it  myself. 
Just  find  out  where  she  lives ;  but  not  a  word  about  me, 
remember,  and  the  dollar  is  yours." 

"  I— I'll  try,  sir,"  was  the  faltering  answer. 


124:        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  That's  a  brave  fellow !  Come  here,  just  at  dark,  tell 
me  all  about  it,  and  get  your  money." 

The  young  man  passed  on  as  he  spoke,  leaving  the 
money  in  Joseph's  hand,  forgetting,  also,  to  take  his 
paper. 

"  This  is  mine,  all  mine  ;  he  gave  it  to  me,"  thought 
the  boy,  gazing  upon  the  money.  "  What  a  splendid 
man  he  is— and  yet  his  eyes.  I  don't  like  his  eyes,  they 
seem  so  tired.  I  wonder  is  he  sick,  or  can't  he  sleep  at 
night  ?  It  looks  like  that.  I  wish  he  hadn't  asked  me 
to  do  that  other  thing.  How  shall  I  speak  to  her? 
Not  a  lady  because  she  sews  !  Why,  grandma  patches 
and  mends,  and  turns,  and  washes,  too ;  but  I  know 
she's  a  lady,  every  inch  of  her.  Then  there's  sister  Anna 

isn't  she  a  lady,  I  wonder  ?     I  don't  like  that  man. 

He  hasn't  the  least  idea  what  a  lady  is  ;   I  know  he 
hasn't.'' 

Joseph  moved  along  the  garden  wall  as  these  thoughts 
filled  his  mind,  and  found  himself  at  the  corner  in  view 
of  a  large  white  marble  house,  with  a  good  deal  of  orna 
mental  ground  lying  around  it.  A  flight  of  marble  steps 
led  to  the  side-walks,  and  scrolls  of  carved  work  ran 
down  each  side  white  as  drifted  snow. 

Robert  would  have  recognized  this  house  at  once ;  but 
little  Joseph  had  never  seen  it  before,  and  stood  gazing 
upon  the  steps,  wondering  if  the  lady,  who  was  not  a 
lady,  because  she  took  in  sewing,  would  ever  come  out. 

The  boy  had  been  watching,  perhaps  ten  minutes, 
when  a  female  came  gliding  down  those  marble  steps, 
in  a  brown  dress  and  straw  bonnet,  that  seemed  strangely 
familiar  to  him.  He  started  forward  and,  uttering  a 
glad  cry,  met  his  sister  Anna  face  to  face. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        125 

"  Why  Joseph,  is  it  you  ?  Dear  child,  how  flushed 
his  face  is !  What  are  you  doing  with  all  these  papers, 
dear  ?  Why,  you  look  like  a  little  newsboy  1" 

"  So  I  am,  Anna — that  is,  I'm  going  to  be,  and  earn 
lots  of  money.  I've  hollered  out  papers  once,  and  it 
didn't  frighten  me  very  much.  Some  day,  Anna,  I'll 
come  and  call  out,  '  Ledger !  Ledger!'  right  under  your 
window;  that  is,  when  I  can  do  it  without  shaking  so." 

Anna's  face  had  brightened  beautifully  wThen  she  first 
saw  the  boy ;  but  you  could  see  that  tears  lay  close  to 
her  eyes  as  he  ceased  speaking. 

"  Poor  child  I  poor,  dear  child  !"  she  said,  laying  one 
hand  on  his  shoulder,  "  perhaps  we  may  come  to  this  ; 
but  I  hope  not — I  hope  not." 

"See!  I  have  got  twenty-five  cents  already,"  cried 
the  lad,  holding  up  the  tiny  note.  "A  gentleman  gave 
it  to  me,  and  forgot  to  take  his  paper ;  and — and — oh, 
sister !  I  forgot ;  he  wants  to  find  out  where  you  live, 
and  has  got  lots  of  fine  work  for  you.  He  is  in  such  a 
hurry  to  have  it  done,  that  he  offered  to  give  me  a  dol 
lar  only  to  find  out  where  to  send  it.  Only  think  ! 
But  then  he  didn't  know  that  I  was  your  brother.  A 
dollar  for  finding  you  out !  Isn't  that  splendid,  Anna  ?" 

"Joseph,  dear,  what  are  you  talking  about?"  said 
Anna,  a  little  startled  by  this  intelligence.  "  Xo  gentle 
man  can  want  me." 

"  Oh,  yes  !  there  does.  Only — only,  now  I  think  of  it, 
he  said  you  wasn't  a  lady ;  and  I  know  you  are,  and 
will  tell  him  so  to  his  face ;  that  is,  I  would,  only  I  am 
such  a  little  boy." 

"  Poor  darling !  It  is  of  no  consequence  what  any 
one  thinks  about  us — so  don't  let  it  fret  you  ;  but  tell 


126        THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

me,  what  was  this  man  like  ?  Did  you  ever  see  him 
before?" 

"No,  indeed,  sister  Anna,  I  never  did." 

"  Not  on  the  night  when  we  made  pictures  ?" 

"  No  ;  he  wasn't  there." 

"It  is  strange,"  muttered  the  young  girl,  a  little 
troubled.  "  What  could  any  one  want  of  me  ?" 

"  He  said  that  it  was  work  he  wanted  done,"  answered 
the  boy,  earnestly.  "  Perhaps  Mrs.  Savage  has  told 
him  how  nicely  you  stitch,  and  embroider,  and  hem 
handkerchiefs." 

"  I  think  not,"  said  Anna,  quite  seriously.  "  Was  he 
a  tall  man,  Joseph  ?" 

"  No  ;  not  near  so  tall  or  large  as  Mr.  Savage.  But 
there  he  come — there  he  comes." 

Anna  looked  across  the  street,  and  saw  a  rather  small 
young  man,  with  marks  of  age  on  his  features,  which 
years  had  never  given  them  ;  and  those  heavy,  dim 
eyes,  which  grow  out  of  sleepless  nights  and  unsettled 
habits  of  life. 

"It  is  a  stranger;  I  never  saw  him  before,"  said 
Anna,  in  a  low,  frightened  voice.  "  Come  home  with 
me,  Joseph — come  away  at  once.  He  looks  this  way, 
as  if  he  were  coming  over." 

"  No,  he  won't.  He's  walking  on ;  don't  be  fright 
ened,  Anna.  He's  a  very  nice  gentleman,  and  only 
wants  some  work  done."  . 

"  No,  no  !     Come  with  me,  child  !" 

"  I  mustn't  till  Robert  and  the  boy  comes  back  ;  the 
papers  are  not  mine,  you  know." 

"  True,  true ;  but  come  home  the  moment  you  can, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        127 

dear ;  and  tell  that  man  nothing  about  me.    I  am  afraid 
of  him." 

"  I  won't  tell  a  word,  Anna ;  nothing  shall  make  me. ' 
There,  he's  coming  back  again." 

Anna  caught  one  glance  of  the  man  and  walked  on. 

The  moment  she  was  out  of  sight,  the  young  man 
came  across  the  street,  taking  out  his  port-monaie  as  he 
approached  the  boy." 

"  Here  is  your  money,"  he  said.  "  Now  tell  me 
where  the  young  lad}^  lives — where  I  can  send  the 
work?" 

"  She  doesn't  want  any  work,  sir !" 

"  Won't  you  take  the  money,  my  boy  ?" 

"No,  sir!" 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  that  young  lady  is  my  sister,  and  told  me 
not." 


CHAPTER   X. 

ROBERT    GETS    A    SITUATION. 

ROBERT  BURNS  and  his  new  friend  made  their  way 
into  the  business  part  of  the  city,  They  entered  a 
large  warehouse,  and  passed  through  it  into  a  back 
room — found  a  young  man  writing  notes  at  one  of  the 
desks.  He  looked  up,  saw  the  two  boys,  and  suspended 
his  writing  long  enough  to  question  them  with  his 
eyes. 

"  This  is  a  boy  that  I  want  Mr.  Gould  to  engage,  sir. 


128        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Where  is  the  old  gentleman  ?"  said  the  newsboy,  desig 
nating  Robert  by  a  wave  of  his  not  over-clean  hand. 
"  True  as  steel,  sir,  and  honest  as  a  morning  paper,  sir. 
Where's  the  boss  ?— perhaps  you  don't  know,"  he  added, 
eyeing  an  antique  seal  ring  on  the  gentleman's  white 
hand.  "  New  feller  in  these  premises,  any  way.  I 
never  see  you  afore." 

The  young  man  went  on  with  his  writing,  and  took 
no  apparent  heed  of  this  rather  elaborate  address.  His 
pen  ran  over  a  sheet  of  note-paper  with  a  quick  and 
noiseless  motion,  that  filled  the  newsboy  with  admiring 
astonishment.  Then  the  note  was  folded,  and  some 
thing  placed  with  it  in  the  long,  narrow  envelope,  which 
rustled  under  the  touch  of  those  fingers,  silkily,  like  a 
bank-note.  Then  a  wax  taper,  coiled  up  like  a  garter- 
snake,  was  lighted,  a  drop  of  pale  green  wax  fell  from 
it  to  the  note  ;  and  while  the  young  man  stamped  the 
seal  with  his  antique  ring,  he  seemed  to  become  sud 
denly  conscious  that  the  boys  were  gazing  on  him  with 
no  common  curiosity. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  smiling  down  upon  the  seal  as  he 
examined  the  impression  he  had  made,  "  what  is  it  ? 
Did  you  want  something,  boys  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  that  is  just  it.  We  want  to  see  the  old 
boss !" 

"  The  old  what?"  cried  the  young  gentleman,  with  a 
look  of  comic  astonishment — "the  old  what?" 

"The  boss,  sir  ;  the  old  gentleman  who  runs  this  ere 
machine!" 

"  Oh !  you  mean  the  governor.  Too  late  ;  sailed  for 
Europe  yesterday." 

"  But  he  told  me  I  might  look  up  a  boy  for  him  the 


very  last  time  I  brought  the  weeklies  here ;  and  I've 
found  just  the  chap." 

"Oh!  the  errand-boy.  So  the  governor  commis 
sioned  you — just  like  him.  "We  do  want  a  handy  lad, 
I  think.  I  say,  Smith." 

Smith  came  in  from  a  little  den  of  a  room  at  the  left, 
with  a  pen  behind  his  ear. 

"Did  you  call,  sir?" 

"  Did  the  governor  say  any  thing  about  engaging  a 
boy  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  He  was  particularly  anxious  to  get  a  good 
one,  smart  and  honest." 

"With  all  my  heart,  if  he  can  find  the  paragon. 
Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  little  fellow?"  The 
young  man  pointed  his  pen  carelessly  at  Robert  without 
troubling  himself  to  look  that  way. 

Smith  looked  at  the  boy  keenly,  who  blushed  crimson 
under  his  gaze. 

"  He  seems  modest,  at  least,  and  looks  intelligent," 
was  the  kind  answer. 

"  Then  you  like  him  ?  Come  here,  sir,  and  answer 
me  a  few  questions." 

Robert  moved  up  to  the  desk,  and  lifted  his  honest 
eyes  to  the  young  man's  face. 

"  How  old  are  }^ou,  my  fine  fellow?" 

"  Twelve,  sir,  and  going  on  thirteen." 

"Rather  young,  isn't  he?"  said  the  gentleman,  ap 
pealing  to  Smith. 

"  That  will  not  matter  so  much,  Mr.  Gould.  He 
seems  healthy,  and  is  intelligent." 

"You  like  him,  then?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 
8 


130    THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Robert,  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
"I'm  much  obliged,  and — and— 

"  That  will  do — take  him  on,  Smith ;  but  stay  a  min 
ute.  Are  you  acquainted  with  the  city  ?" 

"  Pretty  well,  sir." 

"  Can  you  read  writing  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !" 

"And  write  yourself?" 

"Yes,  I  can  write." 

"  See  if  you  can  read  that." 

Gould  handed  the  note  he  had  just  directed,  and 
Robert  read  the  address. 

"  J.  Ward,  Girard  House.  " 

"  That  will  do.  Now,  your  first  duty  will  be  to  carry 
that  note." 

"I  am  ready,  sir." 

"Of  course  he's  ready,"  cried  the  newsboy,  rejoicing 
over  his  friend's  success;  "but  hadn't  you  better  do 
things  a  little  ship-shape?  About  the  wages,  now. 
This  young  gentleman  has  got  a  mother " 

"  Grandmother,"  whispered  Robert. 

"  Just  so.  A  grandmother  and  sister  to  support ; 
and  money  is  money  to  him." 

Gould  laughed. 

"  How  much  did  we  give  the  last  fellow  ?"  he  said, 
addressing  Smith  in  careless  good-humor. 

"  Three  dollars  a  week." 

"  Give  this  one  four.  I'll  be  responsible  to  the  gov 
ernor.  With  an  old  grandmother,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing,  it  won't  be  too  much." 

"  Oh,  sir!  I  am  so  glad— so  very,  very  glad!"  cried 
Robert,  crushing  his  hat  between  both  hands  in  a 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         131 

paroxysm  of  grateful  feelings.  "  I  wish  you  could  see 
her  ;  she  would  know  how  to  thank  you,  I  don't." 

"  He's  young  and  green — don't  mind  him,"  cut  in  the 
newsboy,  drawing  the  sleeve  of  his  jacket  across  his 
eyes.  "  Consarn  the  dust,  how  it  blinds  a  fellow  !  By- 
and-by  he'll  take  things  like  a  man." 

"  I  only  wish  I  was  a  man ;  oh,  sir !  how  I  would 
work  for  you." 

Gould  got  up  from  his  seat  and  laid  his  white  hand 
on  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  Boy  I  boy !  I  would  be  a  child  again,  could  that 
give  me  back  the  feeling  which  fills  those  eyes  with 
tears.  Oh,  Smith  1  how  much  we  men  lose  in  hardening 
ourselves.  It  is  only  the  pure  and  good  who  can  be 
really  grateful.  Heavens  I  how  I  envy  this  boy  1" 

"  Me,  sir  ?"  said  Robert ;  "  envy  me.  But  then  it  is 
something  to  earn  so  much  money ;  and  more  yet,  to 
know  that  your  father  died  for  his  country,  fighting  in 
the  front  ranks.  I'm  all  they  have  to  depend  on,  sir. 
You  haven't  any  idea  how  rich  this  four  dollars  a  week 
will  make  us.  But  I'll  earn  it !  I'll  earn  it — see  if  I 
don't !" 

"  Of  course  you  will  1"  exclaimed  the  newsboy,  who 
was  getting  rather  tired  of  the  scene.  "  But  here  comes 
another  gentleman — hadn't  we  better  make  ourselves 
scarce  till  to-morrow?" 

As  the  lad  spoke,  a  strange  gentleman  came  into  the 
counting-room,  and  shook  hands  with  Gould. 

"  Well,  I've  been  on  the  war-track,  with  some  success, 
too,"  he  said  eagerly.  "  Saw  her  going  into  that 
house " 

"  What  house,  Ward  ?     What  house  ?" 


132         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"Why "  here  Ward  broke  off,  and  took  young 

Gould  aside,  to  whom  he  spoke  in  a  low,  eager  voice  for 
some  minutes.  The  young  man  listened  with  a  little 
impatience  ;  and  more  than  once  his  face  flushed  angrily. 
At  last  he  came  away  from  the  window,  where  they  had 
been  conversing,  with  a  sparkle  of  indignation  in  his 
fine  eyes. 

"  Take  no  unworthy  means,"  he  said  ;  "  I  will  neither 
sanction  or  take  advantage  of  any  thing  forced  or  dis 
honorable." 

Ward  laughed. 

"What  has  come  over  you?"  he  said.  "  Capricious 
as  ever ;  carried  off  by  some  other  pretty  face,  I  dare 
say?" 

"No,  there  you  mistake." 

"  Well,  well  I  you  will  join  us  to-night  ?" 

"  No ;  I  promised  my  uncle  to  give  all  that  sort  of 
thing  up." 

"You  did?" 

"  Yes  ;  God  bless  the  dear  old  fellow !  He  came 
down  so  handsomely — without  a  word,  too ;  asked  no 
promise — found  no  fault." 

"  But  you  made  a  promise  and  a  very  silly  one." 

"  Possibly — time  will  show ;  at  least  I  will  be  neither 
false  nor  ungrateful,  if  I  can  help  it." 

Here  Ward's  eyes  fell  upon  the  note,  with  its  dainty 
seal — and  he  laughed  a  little  maliciousty. 

"  Oh  I     Ha !     I  understand  !     A  new  flame,"  he  cried. 

"  You  can  look  at  the  address,"  said  Gould,  quietly  ; 
"  and  read  it,  if  you  like." 

Ward  took  up  the  note,  and  looked  surprised. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    o  IIP  HANS;        133 

"  This  lad  would  have  brought  it  to  you  in  half  an 
hour,"  said  Gould. 

Ward  tore  the  note  open,  and  a  thousand  dollar  bill 
dropped  out.  He  picked  it  up,  glanced  at  the  amount, 
and  then  at  Robert. 

"And  you  would  have  intrusted  this  to  that  child — 
who  is  he?" 

"Our  new  errand-boy." 

"But  his  name?" 

"  I  really  don't  know  it." 

"And  without  knowing  his  name,  you  would  intrust 
him  with  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  or  ten  times  as  much." 

"  But  what  do  you  know  about  him  ?" 

"Nothing." 

"  Who  recommended  him  ?" 

"  I  recommended  him,"  broke  forth  the  newsboy. 
"  What  have  you  to  say  against  that,  I  want  to  know  ?" 

Ward  measured  the  indignant  newsboy  with  his  scorn 
ful  eyes,  folded  up  the  treasury-note,  and  left  the  count 
ing-room  a  good  deal  crest-fallen  and  annoyed. 

Robert  and  his  literary  friend  followed  him,  and,  I 
regret  to  say,  the  latter  put  both  hands  up  to  his  face, 
and  ground  an  imaginary  coffee-mill  with  vigor  during 
the  moment  in  which  Ward  turned  to  look  upon  him 
as  he  passed  round  the  nearest  corner.  As  for  Robert, 
he  did  not  clearly  comprehend  the  movement,  for  old 
Mrs.  Burns  had  kept  him  in-doors  a  great  deal  of  the 
time,  and  his  education,  in  some  particulars,  was  in 
complete. 


134:        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 
CHAPTER  XL 

AN   INTRUDER. 

WHEN  Anna  Burns  left  her  little  brother  near  the 
garden  wall,  she  turned  down  the  next  street,  and  met 
young  Savage  coming  from  an  opposite  direction.  His 
face  flushed  pleasantly,  and  his  eyes  brightened  as  he 
saw  her. 

"Miss  Burns,  how  happy  I  am  to  have  met  you,'7 
he  said,  turning  back  and  walking  by  her  side.  "I 
would  have  called,  but  was  afraid  of  intruding  upon 
your  sorrow.  How  is  the  dear  old  lady  ?" 

Anna  had  been  flushing  red  and  turning  white,  like 
the  sensitive,  modest  creature  she  was,  till  he  looked 
kindly  down  into  her  face,  and  asked  this  question ; 
then  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  answered  him  with  a  smile 
that  made  his  heart  leap. 

"Thank  you  very  much!  Grandmother  is  well,  and 
happier  than  any  of  us.  She  is  so  good  that  even  grief 
seems  to  make  her  more  and  more  gentle.  I  never 
heard  her  complain  in  my  life." 

"  Still,  this  must  have  been  a  terrible  blow." 

"  It  was  !  it  was  !  But  she  yields — bends  ;  resists 
nothing  that  God  sees  fit  to  inflict." 

"And  you?" 

His  voice  was  full  of  tender  compassion.  His  eyes 
brought  tears  into  hers. 

"I  cannot  be  so  good,  my  heart  will  ache;  my  very 
breath  is  sometimes  painful!  Oh,  sir!  you  cannot  tell 
how  I  loved  my  father !" 

"He  must  have  been  a  superior  man,"  said  Savage, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         135 

gently;  "a  very  superior  man,  to  have  brought  up  a 
family  so  well,  under  what  seems  to  me  great  diffi 
culties." 

"  He  was  a " 

Anna  broke  down  here — tears  drowned  her  voice. 

"  Forgive  me  !  I  am  cruel  to  wound  you  so  ;  but  it  is 
not  meant  unkindly,"  said  Savage. 

"I  know — I  know!"  faltered  Anna,  behind  her  veil; 
"  but  you  cannot  think  how  noble  he  was — what  beau 
tiful  talent  he  had.  I  think  Joseph  takes  after  him  ;  he 
begins  to  draw  pictures 'even  now." 

"Was  your  father  an  artist,  then?" 

"  Yes  ;  a  designer  on  wood.  He  was  just  beginning 
to  make  himself  known.  But  he  could  do  many  things 
beside  that.  We  all  loved  him  so — and  now  he  is  dead !" 

Anna  drew  her  veil  close,  and,  for  a  time,  the  young 
pair  walked  on  in  silence,  unconscious  of  the  course  they 
were  taking.  They  were  aroused  by  a  carriage  dashing 
past,  in  which  a  lady  sat  alone.  She  leaned  forward,  re 
vealing  an  eager  face,  surmounted  by  a  bonnet  of  lilac 
velvet,  with  masses  of  pink  roses  under  the  narrow 
front.  The  horses  moved  so  rapidly  that  Savage  scarcely 
recognized  the  face  of  Miss  Eliza  Halstead  as  she  swept 
by;  but  Anna  saw  it  clearly,  and  shrunk  within  herself. 

Miss  Halstead  had  recognized  Savage  with  a  killing 
smile  on  her  lips  ;  but  when  she  saw  his  companion,  the 
smile  withered  into  a  sneer,  and  she  seized  the  check- 
string  in  fierce  haste. 

"  Drive  round  the  block  again,  fast  at  first,  then 
slower,"  she  said. 

The  man  obeyed,  and  dashing  round  the  block,  came 
upon  the  young  couple  again  at  a  slower  pace.  Now 


136         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Miss  Eliza  leaned  out,  kissed  her  hand  to  Savage,  and 
searched  Anna's  face  through  the  veil  that  shaded  it 
with  her  vicious  eyes. 

"I  thought  so — I  thought  so!"  she  muttered,  biting 
the  fingers  of  her  canary-colored  gloves  till  the  delicate 
kid  was  torn  by  her  teeth.  "  It's  that  creature,  not 
Georgiana,  who  stands  in  my  way.  Oh !  I  have  made 
a  discovery!  It's  her!  It's  the  same  girl  that  I 
saw  at  the  fair.  Some  poor  seamstress  or  sewing- 
machine  operator,  or  I'm  dreadfully  mistaken." 

The  carriage  moved  slowly  on  as  Eliza  registered 
these  convictions  in  her  mind ;  and  before  it  was  out  of 
sight,  Savage  had  forgotten  its  existence,  so  deeply  was 
he  interested  in  the  conversation  of  the  young  girl  who 
walked  so  modestly  by  his  side — so  completely  did  the 
feelings  of  the  moment  carry  him  away. 

They  parted  at  last  not  far  from  Anna's  dwelling. 
Her  hand  was  in  his  for  an  instant ;  her  eyes  met  his 
ardent  glance  as  he  whispered  farewell ;  and  warm,  red 
blushes  dried  up  the  tears  that  had  been  upon  her  cheek. 

"  I  will  see  you  again — I  must  see  you  again,"  he  said, 
while  her  hand  trembled  in  his  ;  "  without  that  hope,  I 
should  not  care  to  live." 

These  words,  sincere  and  impassioned,  were  enough 
to  flood  her  face  with  blushes,  and  set  her  to  wondering 
why  the  heart  that  had  seemed  so  heavy,  rose  and 
throbbed  like  a  nightingale  startled  on  its  nest  by  the 
song  of  some  kindred  bird. 

With  a  light  step  and  beaming  face,  the  young  crea 
ture  turned  into  the  dark  paths  of  her  every-day  life,  and 
climbed  the  stairs  which  led  to  her  garret-home,  lightly 
as  angels  tread  a  rainbow.  The  old  lady  looked  up 


THE    SOLDIEE'S    ORPHANS.         137- 

when  she  saw  her  grandchild  coming,  and  smiled  meekly, 
feeling  that  she  would  need  such  comfort ;  but  she  was 
surprised  when  Anna  smiled  back,  and,  taking  off  her 
bonnet,  turned  a  face  that  was  almost  radiant  upon  her. 

"  What  is  it,  love  ?  What  has  happened,  that  yon 
should  look  so  bright,  so  happy  ?" 

"Happy?  Am  I  happy,  grandmother?  jSTo,  no! 
It  was  but  last  night  I  told  you  that  nothing  on  earth 
"could  ever  make  me  happy,  now  that  he  was  dead." 

"  Yes,  child  ;  but  God  does  not  permit  eternal  grief 
to  the  young." 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Anna,  leaning  over  the  old  wo 
man's  chair,  that  her  face  might  not  be  seen,  "have  you 
not  always  told  me  that  God  is  love  ?" 

"Yes,  darling,  God  is  love." 

"  Then,  grandmother,  all  love  must  be  divine — born 
of  heaven  ?" 

"  Yes,  child,  all  love  is  born  of  heaven." 

"  Grandmother  ?" 

"  Well,  my  dear." 

*"  Did  any  one  ever  love  you  ?" 

The  old  lady's  hands  fell  into  her  lap,  and  clasped 
themselves  tightly. 

"  I — I  thought  so  once,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"Yes,  I  thought  so." 

"  Did  you  ever  love  any  one,  dear  grandmother  ?" 

"  Did  I  ever  love  any  one  ?  God  help  me,  yes,  I 
have  ;-  I- " 

Anna  flung  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  old  wo 
man,  struck  to  the  heart  by  her  own  cruelty.  The  poor 
old  lady  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot;  her  lips 
quivered  like  those  of  a  grieved  child ;  her  heart  was 


138         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

troubled  as  the  earth  stirs  when  a  lily  has  been  torn 
up  by  the  root. 

"  Oh,  grandmother,  forgive  me  !"  cried  the  young 
girl ;  "  I  did  not  mean  it.  Can  love  last  so  long  ?  Is 
it  rooted  so  deep  in  the  life  ?" 

A  quivering  smile  stole  over  that  gentle  face. 

"  Do  you  think  that  love  is  only  given  to  the  young? 
That  it  is  mortal  like  the  body  ?  That  it  leaves  the 
soul  because  bright  hair  turns  to  silver  on  the  head  ? 
No,  no,  my  child  !  Love  is  the  one  passion  which  time 
deepens  holily,  but  cannot  kill.  The  soul,  when  it  seeks 
eternity,  carries  that  with  it.  There  is  no  real  life  to 
the  woman  that  does  not  love." 

"  Oh,  grandmother!  how  solemnly  you  speak." 

"  The  love  of  an  old  woman  is  always  solemn." 

"And  of  a  young  woman  —  what  is  that  grand 
mother  ?" 

"  With  her,  my  child,  it  is  the  blossom  which  precedes 
the  fruit, — bright,  delicate,  heavenly, — perishing,  some 
times,  with  the  first  frost,  or  under  a  warm  burst  of 
sunshine  ;  but  when  the  blossom  falls  only  to  shrine  its 
shadow  in  the  core  of  the  fruit  that  springs  from  it, 
changing  itself  only  to  meet  the  sweet  changes  of 
womanhood ;  then,  and  not  till  then,  can  the  soul  know 
how  faithful,  how  true,  how  immortal  love  is." 

Anna  bent  her  head  and  listened  to  that  sad,  low 
voice,  which  spoke  of  love  with  such  sweet  solemnity. 
The  blossoms  of  a  first  love  seemed  opening  in  her 
heart,  then,  and  flooding  it  with  perfume. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  how  beautiful  life  is !"  she  said, 
with  a  deep  sigh,  which  had  no  pain  in  it.  "I  think  the 
whole  earth  brightens  every  day." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         139 

"Anna,"  said  the  old  lady,  gently. 

"Well,  grandmother." 

"  How  long  is  it  since  the  world  has  become  so  beau 
tiful  to  you?" 

"  Oh  1  I  don't  know ;  but  it  seems  to  me  forever." 

"  Still  it  is  but  a  little  time  since  we  heard  that  my 
son — your  father " 

"  Yes,  I  know — I  know.  For  a  time  all  the  universe 
was  dark  as  night  to  me ;  but  now  it  seems  as  if  my 
father  had  come  back,  and  brought  glimpses  of  the 
heaven  he  inhabits  with  him.  Oh,  grandmother !  why 
is  it  that  I  am  not  unhappy  ?  I  know  he  is  dead ; 
I  know  that  we  are  poor  and  helpless ;  that  this  is  a 
miserable  room,  with  nothing  lovely  in  it  but  this 
precious  old  face,  yet  it  seems  like  a  paradise  to  me.  I 
could  sing  here  as  nightingales  do  among  the  roses." 

"Anna,  my  child,  I  fear  this  is  love." 

"  Love,  grandmother!"  cried  the  girl,  in  a  quick, 
startled  voice.  "  No,  no  !  not  that !  I  never  thought 
that  it  was  really  love." 

That  bright,  young  face  turned  white  as  she  spoke ; 
and  Anna's  eyelids  drooped  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  grandmother  !  what  makes  you  say  that  ?" 

"I  did  not  say  it  unkindly,  darling." 

"  You  never  do  say  any  thing  unkindly,  dear  grand 
mother — but  this  frightens  me.  Am  I  doing  wrong  ?" 

"  Doing  wrong  !  There  can  be  no  wrong  in  an  honest 
affection;  but  there  may  be,  and  is,  great  danger." 

"  Danger,  grandmother — how  ?" 

"  I  cannot  explain — cannot  even  point  out  the  danger; 
but  this  young  man  is  rich,  proud,  highly  educated. 


140  THE     SOLDIERS     ORPHANS. 

His  parents  are  said  to  be  ambitious  for  him  beyond 
any  thing." 

"  Yes,  grandmother,  I  suppose  they  are  ;  and  I  am 
so  lowly,  so  very  poor ;  so,  so " 

The  poor  girl's  e}Tes  filled,  and  her  sweet  lips  began 
to  quiver  with  the  tenderness  of  new-born  grief. 

"  I  did  not  think  of  them.  I  never  thought  of  any 
thing,  only " 

She  broke  off  and  covered  her  face  with  both  hands. 

"  Only  that  he  loved  you.  Has  young  Mr.  Savage 
told  you  this,  Anna  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Yes,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  he  had. 
How  dark  every  thing  is  growing.  This  room  is  black 
and  shabby.  I  wonder  he  could  ever  come  here.  I 
remember,  now,  the  boys  were  playing  with  oyster- 
shells  when  he  came  in,  and  they  had  no  shoes  on,  poor, 
little  fellows  !  He  never  would  have  said  those  things 
to  me  here.  Never,  never  !" 

Anna  buried  her  face  in  the  old  lady's  cap,  and  that 
little,  withered  hand  began  to  smooth  her  hair  with 
gentle  touches  of  affection,  that  went  directly  to  the 
young  heart. 

"  Be  quiet,  be  patient,  my  dear  child.  What  have  I 
said  that  you  should  sink  into  such  despair  ?" 

Anna  lifted  her  head,  and  put  the  hair  back  from  her 
eyes  with  both  hands. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Only  this,  my  dear.  If  the  young  man  loves  yon, 
the  obstacles  which  I  have  pointed  out  will  be  overcome ; 
for  as  there  is  nothing  on  this  earth  so  pure  as  love, 
neither  is  there  any  thing  so  powerful.  Through  the 
strong  affection  which  a  mother  feels  for  her  son,  even 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHA'NS.        141 

that  proud  lady  may  yield.  Do  not  let  the  poverty  of 
this  room,  or  of  3rour  dress,  weigh  too  heavily  upon 
you.  It  is  well  that  he  should  have  seen  you  thus  at 
first ;  and  remember,  a  modest,  good  girl,  well-informed, 
and  well-mannered,  is  the  match  of  any  man  in  a  coun 
try  like  ours." 

"  Dear  grandmother  1"  exclaimed  Anna,  gratefully. 

"Now  tell  me,"  said  the  old  lady,  "what  did  this 
young  man  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  cannot  tell.  Every  word  is  in  my 
heart ;  but  I  could  as  soon  give  you  the  perfume  from,  a 
rose  as  repeat  them  understandingly.  I  know  that  it 
is  true  ;  but  that  is  all." 

"And  enough,  if  it,  indeed,  prove  true.  But  listen,  I 
think  it  is  the  boys  coming  home." 

Yes,  it  was  Robert  and  Joseph  rushing  up-stairs  with 
unusual  impetuosity.  You  might  have  known  by  their 
deer-like  leaps  up  the  steps,  and  the  joyous  struggle  to 
outstrip  each  other,  that  there  was  good  news  on  their 
lips.  * 

"Oh,  grandmother!  we've  done  it!  We're  men  of 
business,  both  of  us.  Four  dollars  a  week  for  me,  and 
Josey  unlimited,  but  magnificent.  He's  got  a  voice.  I 
wish  you  could  hear  him.  Twenty-five  cents,  clear  cash, 
in  an  hour.  That  newsboy  wouldn't  touch  a  cent  of  it. 
Oh !  he's  a  capital  fellow,  a .  gentleman  every  inch  of 
him — that  is,  in  heart.  He  got  me  that  place  ;  he's 
been-  a  benefactor  to  me,  a  prince,  a  first-rate  fellow ! 
Kiss  Joe,  grandmother,  I'm  getting  a  little  too  large ; 
but,  but — no,  I'm  not.  I  shall  die  and  shake  up  if 
somebody  don't  kiss  me.  Only  think,  four  dollars  a* 
week.  Hurrah !" 


142         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Robert  flung  his  new  cap  up  to  the  ceiling,  and 
leaped  after  it  with  the  spring  of  an  antelope.  Joseph 
had  "both  arms  around  his  grandmother's  neck,  and  was 
pressing  the  twenty-five  cent  note  upon  her. 

"It's  all  mine,  every  cent.  You  and  Anna  can  spend 
it  between  you  ;  buy  new  dresses  with  it,  or  shawls,  or 
a  pretty  bonnet  for  Anna.  Don't  be  afraid,  I  can  earn 
more — lots  and  lots  more.  He's  going  to  give  me  some 
of  the  papers  that  have  pictures  on  them  to  sell ;  per 
haps  father's  pictures  may  be  among  them.  He  didn't 
think  that  I  should  ever  sell  the  beautiful  things  he 
made,  did  he?  But  I  shall,  and  it  will  make  me  so 
proud  to  see  people  admiring  them.  Kiss  me,  grandma, 
and  say  that  you're  glad." 

"  I  am  very  glad  that  you  come  home  so  happy,  my 
children — but  what  is  it  all  about?"  said  the  grand 
mother,  kissing  Joseph  on  his  pure  white  forehead, 
while  she  reached  forth  her  hand  to  Robert. 

"  Oh !  it's  just  this.  I'm  engaged  as  an  errand-boy 
in  a  first-rate  house  for  four  dollars  a  week ;  and  Joseph 
there — who'd  believe  it  of  the  little  shaver — has  got  a 
newspaper  route  ready  for  him ;  and  he's  ready  for  it. 
Between  us  we  mean  to  support  you  and  Anna  first- 
rate,  and  dress  her  up  till  she  looks  like  a  pink.  I  mean 
to  get  her  a  velvet  cloak,  like  that  Miss  Halstead  had 
on  at  the  fair,  the  very  first  thing,  and  long,  gold  ear 
rings,  and — and  every  thing.  Indeed,  I  do.  Don't  we, 
Joseph?" 

"  That's  just  what  I  told  grandma  when  I  gave  her 
that  twenty-five  cent  bill,"  said  Joseph,  magnificently. 
"Said  I,  get  dresses  and  shawls  with  it.  Didn't  I, 
grandma  ?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        143 

The  grandmother  smiled  tenderly,  smoothed  his  hair 
with  her  palm. 

"And  who  is  it  that  you  are  engaged  with,  Robert  ?" 
she  said  ;  "  you  have  not  told  us  any  thing  yet." 

"  No,  I  haven't.  I  wonder  what's  the  matter  with  me  ? 
It's  with  Gould  &  Co.  Splendid,  I  can  tell  you.  Ware 
house,  as  they  call  it,  a  hundred  feet  long.  Oh,  Anna  ! 
I  wish  you  could  see  the  young  gentleman— he  is  splen 
did.  But  grandma,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  How 
white  you  are !  How  your  poor  hands  shake  !  Dear 
me,  what  is  the  matter?" 

The  old  lady's  head  had  fallen  forward  on  her  bosom  ; 
the  borders  of  her  cap  quivered  like  a  white  poppy  in 
the  wind.  She  grasped  some  folds  of  her  dress  with 
one  hand,  as  if  to  steady  its  trembling. 

"  Grandma,  what  is  the  matter?" 

The  old  lady  lifted  her  wan  face,  and  looked  at  the 
eager  boy  bending  over  her  vaguely,  as  if  she  did  not 
quite  know  him. 

"  Oh !  grandma,  grandma !  what  is  the  matter  ?" 

"  Nothing— nothing  !"  gasped  those  thin,  pale  lips. 
"  Never,  never  mind  me,  children,  I  am  not — not  very 
well." 

Anna,  who  had  taken  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  came 
forward  now,  and,  taking  the  old  woman  in  her  arms, 
laid  her  head  on  her  bosom. 

"  She  is  tired,  Robert;  your  good  news  has  taken  her 
unawares.  Grandmother  is  not  strong." 

"I— I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  her,"  said  Robert,  peni 
tently.  "  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?'7 

"  You  have  not  hurt  me,  dear,"  answered  the  faint  old 
voice.  "  See,  I  am  better  now." 


144        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Wouldn't  a  cup  of  tea  do  her  good?"  whispered 
Joseph.  "It  almost  always  does." 

"  That's  a  bright  idea,"  cried  Robert.  "  Fill  the  tea 
kettle,  Joe,  while  I  make  a  fire.  Dear,  me,  who's  that, 
I  wonder?" 

A  knock  at  the  door  had  startled  the  little  group, 
for  such  sounds  seldom  interrupted  them  in  their  garret- 
room. 

Robert  opened  the  door,  and  a  young  man,  whom 
Joseph  recognized  at  once,  stepped  into  the  room,  lift 
ing  his  hat  as  he  entered. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  he  said,  glancing  around  the  apart 
ment;  "but  chancing  to  see  my  young  friend  there- 
pointing  to  Joseph— enter  this  house,  I  ventured  to 
follow.  We  entered  into  a  little  negotiation  regarding 
some  fine  sewing,  which  I  am  anxious  to  complete.  Is 
this  young  lady  the  sister  you  spoke  of,  young  gentle 
man?" 

Joseph  retreated  slowly  toward  his  grandmother,  and 
stood  looking  at  the  stranger,  turning  white  and  red, 
like  the  frightened  child  he  was. 

"  She  is  my  sister,"  cried  Robert,  flinging  down  a 
handful  of  kindling  wood  on  the  hearth,  and  coming 
forward.  "  But  just  now  I  can  support  her  handsomely 
myself,  on  what  Mr.  Gould  pays  me.  He  wouldn't 
have  followed  me  home  like  that.  We  are  very  much 
obliged  ;  but  sister  Anna  has  all  the  fine  work  she  can 
do,  and  never  takes  any  thing  of  the  kind  from  gentle 
men—at  any  rate,  unless  they  are  very  particular  friends, 
indeed,"  added  the  boy,  with  a  blush,  remembering  that 
Anna  had  done  some  work  of  the  kind  for  young  Sav- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN s .        145 

age,  and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  doing  of  it  very  much, 
indeed. 

"  Then  your  sister  does,  sometimes,  accept  such  work 
as  I  offer?"  said  the  young  man,  bowing  to  Anna.  "  I 
am  glad  to  hear  that ;  it  saves  me  from  feeling  quite  like 
an  intruder.  May  I  hope,  young  lady,  that  you  will 
make  me  one  of  the  exceptions  ?" 

"  She  don't  want  any  work,  "interposed  Robert,  color 
ing  crimson.  "  I've  got  an  idea  above  that  for  her,  and 
I  mean  to  carry  it  out,  too.  Our  Anna,  sir,  is  a  lady, 
if  she  does  live  up  here  under  the  roof." 

"No  one  could  doubt  that  for  a  moment,"  answered 
Ward,  casting  a  glance  of  warm  admiration  on  the  young 
girl. 

Here  the  old  lady  arose,  still  pale,  but  gently  self- 
possessed. 

"  Will  you  be  seated,"  she  said,  with  quiet  dignity, 
"  and  let  us  understand  what  it  is  that  you  desire  of  us? 
My  grandson  seems  to  have  met  you  before." 

"Yes,  grandma,  I  saw  the  gentleman  at  Gould  & 
Co.'s,  and  he  seemed  as  if  he  would  like  them  not  to 
take  me ;  hinted  that  I  wouldn't  carry  a  lot  of  money 
from  one  person  to  another  honestly,  and  hurt  my  feel 
ings,  generally.  I  don't  know  what  he  wants  to  come 
here  for." 

Here  Joseph  gave  his  grandmother's  dress  a  pull,  and 
whispered,  as  she  bent  toward  him,  "  It  was  he  who  paid 
me  the. twenty-five  cents.  Give  it  back  to  him — give  it 
back  to  him." 

The  old  lady  patted  his  head,  and  turned  to  the 
stranger. 

"If  I  understand,  you  wish   to  have  some  sewing 
9 


146        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

done,  and  thinking  my  grandchild  wants  work,  bring  it 
to  her.  We  are  much  obliged ;  but  she  is  very  busy 
just  now,  and  it  will  be  impossible  for  her  to  undertake 
any  thing  more  than  she  has  on  hand." 

"  But  at  some  future  time,  madam,"  said  the  young 
man.  "I  can  wait." 

"  It  will  be  impossible  to  promise  for  the  future,"  an 
swered  the  old  lady;  "  as  the  persons  who  employ  my 
child  now  must  always  have  the  preference.  Perhaps 
we  had  better  think  no  more  about  it." 

Ward  did  not  rise ;  but  sat  balancing  his  hat  by  the 
rim  between  both  hands.  He  evidently  wished  to  pro 
long  the  interview ;  but  the  old  lady  stood  quietly  as  if 
she  expected  him  to  go,  and  he  could  not  muster  hardi 
hood  enough  to  brave  her  even  with  a  shower  of  extra 
politeness.  All  this  time,  Anna  had  not  spoken  a  word ; 
but  sat  by  the  window,  looking  out  like  one  in  a  dream. 
Even  the  intrusion  of  this  strange  man  could  not  drive 
her  from  the  heaven  of  her  thoughts. 

Ward  arose,  almost  awkwardly,  for  the  gentle  breed 
ing  of  that  sweet  old  lady  had  been  a  severe  rebuke 
to  the  audacious  ease  with  which  he  had  entered  the 
room. 

"  Then  I  will  take  leave,"  he  said,  glancing  at  Anna, 
who  was  far  away  in  her  first  love-dream,  and  did  not 
even  see  him.  "  Of  course,  I  am  disappointed ;  but  will 
hope  better  success  when  I  call  again." 

No  one  answered  him ;  and  the  young  man  went  his 
way  crest-fallen  and  bitterly  annoyed.  He  had  certainly 
found  out  where  the  young  girl  lived,  still  nothing  but 
humiliation  had  come  out  of  it.  Gould,  too,  had  almost 
snubbed  him  that  morning.  The  thousand-dollar  note 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        147 

was  some  compensation  for  that;  but  these  people  in 
the  garret,  poor  and  proud — how  should  he  avenge  him 
self  on  them  ?  How  debase  the  pride  that  had  so  hum 
bled  him?  As  he  went  down  stairs,  a  paper  on  one 
side  of  the  outer  door  attracted  his  attention.  A  room  to 
let — that  was  all ;  but  it  struck  the  young  man  with  a 
most  wicked  idea. 

"  Inquire  in  the  front  room,  first  story,"  he  muttered. 
"  Yes,  I'll  do  it  now ;  that  will  give  me  a  right  to  go  in 
and  out  when  I  please." 

He  went  into  the  front  room,  first  story,  and  came 
out  with  a  key  in  his  hand,  remounted  the  stairs,  and 
entered  a  room  directly  beneath  that  occupied  by  the 
Burns  family.  It  was  a  m~an  room,  scantily  furnished, 
looking  out  on  the  chimneys  and  back  yards,  which  have 
already  been  described.  But  the  glimpse  of  blue  sky 
and  a  rich  sunset,  which  could  be  obtained  from  the 
upper  window,  was  broken  up  by  flaunting  clothes-line 
and  bare  walls  here.  A  more  lonely  place  could  not 
well  have  been  found. 

But  young  Ward  cared  nothing  for  this.  A  paltry 
lie  had  secured  him  a  legal  foothold  in  the  house. 
How  he  would  use  that  privilege  would  be  developed  in 
the  future.  He  had  vague  ideas,  but  no  plans.  The 
people  up-stairs  had  attempted  to  freeze  him  from  the 
house,  and  he  would  teach  them  that  it  could  not  be 
done.  That  was  about  all  he  calculated  on  at  the  time. 

Ward  went  back  into  the  front  room,  first  story, 
where  he  found  a  tall,  gaunt  woman  seated  in  a  Boston 
rocking-chair,  working  vigorously  on  some  woollen  gar 
ment  which  she  called  slop-work.  She  wore  no  hoop, 
and  her  scant  dress  fell  short  at  the  ankles,  revealing  a 


148        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

pair  of  men's  slippers,  which  had  once  been  red-morocco, 
and  a  glimpse  of  coarse  yarn  stockings. 

"Well,"  she  said,  pressing  the  side  of  her  steel  thim 
ble  against  the  eye  of  her  needle,  as  she  took  a  vigorous 
stitch,  "suited  with  the  premises,  or  not?  Would  a 
gone  up  with  you,  only  hadn't  time.  Ten  cents  apiece 
for  a  blouse  like  this  don't  give  a  woman  many  play 
spells." 

"  I  like  the  room,  and  will  pay  two  months'  rent  in 
advance,"  said  Ward,  taking  out  his  porte-monnaie. 

"Then  that's  settled,"  answered  the  woman,  nodding 
her  head  as  he  laid  the  money  down.  "  Good-day  I 
Good-day !" 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AN     ECCENTRIC    DRIVE. 

Miss  ELIZA  HALSTEAD  was  very  eccentric  in  her  drive 
about  town  that  day.  She  had  some  shopping  to  do, 
but  forgot  it  entirely,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life.  Miss 
Eliza  had  a  taste  for  that  especial  amusement ;  and  it 
must  have  been  an  absorbing  passion  that  could  have 
drawn  it  from  her  mind.  As  it  was,  Chestnut  street 
saw  but  little  of  the  Halstead  carriage  that  day ;  but  it 
appeared  in  parts  of  the  town  where  such  equipages  sel 
dom  presented  themselves  ;  threaded  cross-streets,  and 
drove  slowly  by  tenement-houses,  astonishing  the  chil 
dren  that  played  on  the  doorsteps,  and  chased  each 
other  along  the  unswept  sidewalks.  Once  or  twice  Miss 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        149 

Eliza  left  her  carriage  and  examined  the  numbers  of 
these  houses  herself,  rather  than  trust  the  coachman  to 
leave  his  horses.  This  singular  conduct  disturbed  the 
serenity  of  this  high  potentate,  who  muttered  his  indig 
nation  to  the  air,  and  lashed  little  boys  with  his  wThip, 
as  if  they  had  been  to  blame  for  bringing  him  into  a 
neighborhood  which  revolted  every  aristocratic  sense 
of  his  nature.  Miss  Eliza,  too,  held  up  her  skirts  as 
she  crossed  the  pavements,  and  threaded  the  sidewalks 
with  an  air  of  infinite  disdain ;  but  comforted  herself  by 
reflecting  that  the  people  who  saw  her  would  believe 
that  some  noble  purpose  of  charity  had  brought  her 
there ;  and,  to  strengthen  this  idea,  she  took  a  showy 
porte-monnaie  from  her  pocket,  and  tangled  its  gold 
chain  in  her  gloved  fingers,  which  was  suggestive  of 
unbounded  benevolence  searching  in  the  highways  and 
hedges  for  objects  of  charity. 

Miss  Eliza  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  by  all  the  num 
bers,  which  she  found  contradicting  each  other  along 
the  battered  doors,  and  wras  about  to  abandon  the  ex 
ploration,  when  she  saw  a  young  man  leave  one  of  the 
houses,  and  walk  down  the  block,  as  if  in  haste  to  leave 
the  neighborhood. 

"  That  is  young  Ward,  I'll  stake  any  thing,"  said 
Miss  Eliza,  leaning  out  of  the  carriage  she  had  just 
entered.  "  What  on  earth  can  he  be  doing  there  ?" 

Young  Ward  did  not  notice  her,  but  turned  a  corner 
and  disappeared ;  but  Eliza  had  taken  a  correct  survey 
of  the  house,  and  ordering  the  coachman  to  drive  slowly 
by  it,  took  the  number  in  her  memory. 

"  She  came  down  this  block  and  darted  into  a  door 
somewhere  close  by  this  very  place,  I'll  be  sworn  to 


150        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

that,"  muttered  the  spinstress.  "  Savage  kept  by  her 
side  almost  to  the  corner.  They  must  have  walked 
together  a  full  hour,  and  he  with  his  head  bent  half  the 
time— the  artful  creature.  I  wonder  if  he  knows  that 
she  left  him  to  meet  this  handsome  young  gambler  in 
that  place  ?  Oh !  it's  all  true  !  That  boy  in  the  door 
is  her  brother,  one  of  the  barefooted  creatures  who 
stood  in  the  picture  of  '  a  soldier's  home.  There  is  no 
mistake  about  the  thing  now.  Jacob !  I  say,  Jacob  I 
You  may  drive  home  1" 

Jacob  muttered  heavily  under  his  breath,  and,  seeing 
a  long  space  of  broken  pavement,  avenged  his  outraged 
dignity  by  driving  through  it  so  roughly  that  the  car 
riage  rocked  and  toiled  in  the  ruts  like  some  ship  in  a 
storm.  Liking  the  faint  screams  that  came  from  within 
the  carriage,  Jacob  resolved  to  give  his  lady  the  full 
benefit  of  the  neighborhood  she  had  forced  him  into ;  so 
he  lost  his  way,  and  drove  around  in  a,  circle,  where  the 
squalid  children  were  thickest  along  the  side-walks,  and 
women  with  naked  arms,  sometimes  dripping  with  soap 
suds,  thrust  their  heads  from  the  windows,  wondering 
at  the  splendor  of  her  equipage.  But  Jacob  revolted 
himself  at  this  amusement,  after  a  little,  and  drove  back 
to  a  level  with  aristocracy  again,  after  which  he  conde 
scended  to  take  a  tolerably  straight  line  for  home. 

Miss  Eliza  went  into  her  step-brother's  house  in  a 
state  of  sublime  exaltation.  Two  distinct  tints  of  red 
flushed  her  cheeks;  her  pale  blue  eyes  darkened  and 
gleamed.  Up  the  steps  she  ran,  and  into  the  house, 
eager  to  unbosom  herself  of  the  secret  that  possessed 
her.  Some  feline  instinct  carried  her  directly  to  the 
little  room  in  which  Georgiana  Halstead  spent  her 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS.        151 

leisure  hours,  and  where  she  then  was  somewhat  lonely 
and  dispirited.  Georgie  had  kept  much  by  herself 
during  the  last  few  days,  for  a  gentle  sadness  had  fallen 
upon  her,  such  as  loving  hearts  know  when  locked  up 
with  anxious  suspense. 

It  was  a  beautiful  room  which  the  girl  occupied,  half 
library,  half  boudoir^  warmed  with  the  mellow  sunshine 
and  bright  with  tasteful  ornaments.  The  walls  were 
wainscoted  with  black  walnut,  enriched  with  gilded 
beading,  and  the  ceiling  was  crossed  with  beams  of  the 
same  dark  wood,  giving  an  antique  air  to  the  whole. 
The  floor  was  also  of  polished  walnut,  which  a  Persian 
carpet,  bright  with  scarlet  and  green,  left  exposed  at  the 
edges.  Turkish  chairs,  and  a  pretty  couch,  all  cushions 
and  crimson  silk,  gave  warmth  to  the  dark  shades  of  the 
wall,  while  crimson  curtains  imparted  to  them  a  double 
richness  when  the  sun  shone  through  them.  Mosaic 
tables  blended  these  commingling  shades  harmoniously. 
A  harp,  that  seemed  one  net-work  of  gold,  stood  in  one 
corner.  A  guitar,  around  which  clustered  a  wreath  of 
gold  and  mother-of-pearl,  lay  upon  the  couch;  and 
superbly  bound  books  were  scattered  on  the  tables. 
But  all  these  had  given  no  happiness  to  pretty  Georgi- 
ana,  who  lay  huddled  together  in  one  of  the  Turkish 
chairs,  pale  as  a  lily,  and  with  soft,  bluish  shadows 
deepening  under  her  eyes.  Whoever  the  man  Was  that 
she  grieved  about,  I  think  he  never  could  have  resisted 
so  much  tender  loveliness,  had  he  seen  Georgie  then, 
with  her  hair  disturbed  and  rippling,  half  in  ringlets, 
half  in  waves,  shading  her  face  here  and  revealing  it 
there,  absolutely  rendering  her  one  of  the  most  interest 
ing  creatures  in  the  world.  A  morning  dress  of  very 


152         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

pale  green  merino,  with  some  swans'-down  about  the 
neck  and  sleeves,  lay  in  soft  folds  around  her.  Sho 
had  been  crying,  poor  girl !  and  the  dew  of  her  tears 
hung  on  those  long,  curling  lashes,  which  were  brown, 
and  several  shades  darker  than  her  golden  hair. 

Georgie  heard  Miss  Eliza's  step,  and  wiped  the  tears 
away  quickly  with  her  hand,  starting  up  and  holding 
her  breath,  like  a  white  hare  afraid  of  being  driven 
from  its  covert,  as  the  rustle  of  silk  drew  nearer  and 
nearer. 

"  Oh,  you  are  here  yet !  I  fancied  so,"  cried  Miss 
Eliza,  flinging  open  the  door,  and  sweeping  into  the 
room  with  a  rush  and  flutter  which  always  accompanied 
her  movements ;  "  and  in  that  morning  dress,  too,  in 
tensely  interesting.  But  do  you  know  it  is  almost  din 
ner-time?" 

"  I  was  not  going  down  to  dinner,  Aunt  Eliza," 
answered  Georgie  ;  "my  head  aches  a  little,  I  think." 

"  What !  have  your  dinner  sent  up  ?  Why,  child,  this 
is  putting  on  airs." 

"No,  I  am  not  putting  on  airs,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"  Aunt  Eliza  !  How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  that  I  de 
test  the  title  ;  besides,  it  does  not  belong  to  me.  I  am 
aunt  to  no  one,  certainly  not  to  a  person  who  has  not  a 
single  drop  of  my  blood  in  her  veins." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  used  the  word  ;  excuse  me,"  said 
Georgie,  with  child-like  sweetness.  "  I  never  wish  to 
offend  you,  Miss  Eliza." 

"No  one  wishes  to  offend  me;  and  yet — but  no  mat 
ter,  I  came  to  tell  you  something,  but  I  dare  say  it  will 
only  set  you  off  into  hysterics,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
I  have  made  a  discovery,  a  painful,  heart-rending  dis- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        153 

€overy.  It  ought  not  to  concern  you,  but  you  have  a 
woman's  heart,  and  can  sympathize  with  me." 

"  What,  what  has  happened  ?"  cried  Georgie,  sitting 
up,  and  turning  her  eyes  full  upon  Miss  Eliza.  "  Noth 
ing  very  serious,  I  hope." 

"  That  depends,"  answered  the  spinster,  sitting  down 
on  the  floor  with  a  swoop  of  her  garments  that  raised  a 
little  whirlwind  around  them,  and  leaning  her  elbow  on 
Georgiana's  lap.  This  was  a  favorite  position  with  Miss 
Eliza  when  the  spirit  of  extreme  youthfulness  grew 
strong  within  her.  "  That  depends  on  the  susceptibility 
of  the  heart  that  is  wounded.  Oh,  child !  may  you  never 
be  gifted  with  those  exquisite  feelings  which  make  up 
that  heavenly  thing  called  genius  in  a  human  soul ;  but 
without  that  you  can  never  know  how  I  suffer,  how  the 
pride  of  suppressed  tenderness  struggles  in  this  soul !" 

Georgiana  had  heard  these  intense  rhapsodies  before, 
and  knew  what  trifling  occasions  could  bring  them  forth. 
She  closed  her  eyes  wearily,  and  laid  her  head  back  on 
the  cushions  of  the  chair,  waiting  in  weary  patience  for 
the  explanation  that  might  be  long  in  coming. 

"  No  wonder  you  sigh ;  no  wonder  the  lids  droop  over 
your  eyes.  My  own  are  full  of  unshed  tears.  But  I 
must  be  brave.  I  will  be  brave,  and  struggle  against 
the  destiny  that  threatens  me." 

Georgiana  sighed  a  little  wearily  and  moved  back  in 
her  seat,  for  Miss  Eliza's  arm  pressed  heavily  upon  her. 

"  Is  there — is  there  a  man  on  earth  that  may  be 
trusted,  who  is  not  ready  to  break  the  heart  that  con 
fides  in  him  ?" 

Georgiana  shrunk  back  from  the  prying  glance  fixed 


154:  THE 

upon  her,  and  strove  against  the  thrill  of  pain  that 
passed  over  her. 

"  Whom  are  you  speaking  of,  Miss  Eliza  ?"  she  in 
quired,  in  a  "faint  voice. 

"  Of  the  man  whom  you,  weak,  silly  thing,  have  loved 
vainly;  and  I — oh!  too  well! — too  well!  He  is  faith 
less,  like  the  rest — cruelly,  cruelly  faithless — I  saw  it 
with  my  own  eyes.  After  that  scene  in  the  carriage,  too, 
when  my  hand  rested  in  the  firm  clasp  of  his ;  when  his 
eyes  met  all  the  maidenly  tenderness  that  flooded  mine. 
Oh,  Georgiana !  that  was  a  heavenly  moment ;  but  the 
earthquake  has  come;  the  tornado  is  passed,  and  my 
heart  lies  a  wreck  under  his  feet. 

'  He  may  break — he  may  ruin  the  vase,  if  he  will, 
But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  cling  to  it  still.' " 

Here  Miss  Eliza  took  out  her  cobweb  of  a  handker 
chief,  and  wiped  some  mythical  tears  from  her  pale, 
gray  eyes.  Then  grasping  the  handkerchief  tightly  in 
her  hand,  she  cried  out,  "But  you  cannot  feel.  He 
never  loved  you,  never  encouraged  your  love." 

Georgiana  started  up,  and  shook  the  arm  from  her 
lap  with  some  impatience. 

"Who  are  you  talking  about?  What  does  all  this 
mean?"  she  said. 

"  It  means,"  said  Eliza,  gathering  herself  up  from  the 
floor,  "  that  the  man  you  love  to  idolatry — but  who 
loves  me  in  spite  of  everything — is  fascinated  with  that 
girl  who  played  Rebecca  in  that  hideous  tableau.  1^ 
saw  them  walking  together  a  whole  hour  this  very  day, 
his  face  bent  to  hers,  her  hand  clasping  his  arm." 

Georgiana  sunk  to  her  chair  again,  white  and  faint. 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         155 

"Aunt  Eliza,  please  let  me  rest  a  little,  I  am  not  well, 
you  know."  Tears  were  in  her  voice,  tears  trembled  on 
her  eyelashes.  Eliza  was  satisfied,  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

AN    UNEXPECTED    MEETING. 

"WHAT  are  you  doing,  Joseph?" 

The  child  did  not  answer  at  first ;  the  bright  red 
came  into  his  innocent  cheeks,  and  he  gave  a  little 
laugh  of  mingled  confusion  and  glee  as  he  trotted  out 
of  the  corner,  and  came  toward  his  grandmother. 

The  old  lady  had  paused  for  a  second  in  her  work ; 
but  she  could  not  afford  to  forget  herself  into  stopping 
completely,  and  her  wasted  fingers  began  moving  as 
assiduously  as  ever. 

"  I  thought  you  were  trying  to  fly,"  said  she,  smiling 
in  her  sweet,  patient  way,  the  sort  of  smile  that  human 
lips  only  wear  when  they  have  been  purified  by  great 
and  patient  suffering.  "  I  didn't  know  but  you  had  a 
pair  of  wings  hid  away  under  your  jacket." 

"  I  wish  I  had !"  exclaimed  Joseph,  impetuously. 
"  Oh  !  I  wish  I  could  fly,  grandma !" 

"  Why,  what  would  you  do,  Joey  ?"  she  asked,  look 
ing  almost  wonderingly  down  at  his  eager  face  all  aglow 
with  enthusiasm. 

"  I'd  fly  away  to  heaven  and  bring  father  back,"  he 
whispered,  nestling  close  to  her  side. 

The  old  woman  dropped  her  work,  and  folded  her 


156        THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS. 

arms  close  about  him  ;  while  one  dry  sob,  that  takes  the 
place  of  tears  with  the  aged,  shook  her  breast. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  angels  wouldn't  let  you  come  back," 
she  whispered  ;  "  grandma  couldn't  lose  her  boy." 

"  No,  no !  I'd  come  back,"  he  said,  eagerly;  "and  I 
would  just  tell  father  how  we  want  him." 

"The  good  Father  of  all  knows  best,  Joseph,"  she 
answered,  with  sweet  submission.  "  You  mustn't  wish 
anybody  back  that  has  gone  over  the  black  waters." 

"Only  we  need  him  so,  grandma." 

"  Yes,  deary  ;  but  you  don't  forget  your  little  hymn. 
We  ain't  alone,  you  know." 

"  No,  grandma  !  Oh !  if  I  was  only  a  big  man  !"  he 
cried,  with  immense  energy. 

"  Were  you  trying  to  stretch  yourself  into  one  ?"  she 
asked,  bringing  herself  back  to  ordinary  reflections  ; 
for  she  had  learned,  poor  soul,  in  those  years  of  trial, 
how  dangerous  it  is  to  give  way  to  yearning  thoughts 
after  the  dear  ones  who  have  gone  forward  to  the  eter 
nal  rest. 

"  Yes,  grandma,"  said  the  boy,  bursting  into  a  laugh 
at  his  own  performance — such  a  merry,  rippling  laugh, 
that  it  made  the  old  woman  think  of  the  sound  the 
mountain  brooks  made  among  the  wild  country  scenes 
she  had  so  loved  in  the  days  when  life  was  still  an 
actual  pleasure. 

"Well,  not  quite  that,  grandma,"  he  added,  in  his 
scrupulously  truthful  way.  "But  I  was  trying  to  see 
if  I  hadn't  got  up  above  the  mark  sister  Anna  made  for 
me  in  the  corner." 

"And  you  couldn't  stretch  yourself  to  satisfy  you? 
It'll  come  soon  enough,  my  boy — soon  enough." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        157 

"I  think  it's  very  slow  work,  grandma;  and  the 
birthdays  are  so  far  apart.  What  a  great  while  a  year 
is,  grandma,  aint  it  ?  It  don't  seem  as  if  it  ought  to 
take  many  of  them  to  make  eternity." 

The  smile  was  quite  gone  from  her  face  now.  She 
had  forgotten  the  work  that  must  be  done;  her  face 
was  uplifted,  and  the  shadowy  eyes  looked  eagerly  out, 
as  if  the  tired  soul  were  trying  to  pierce  the  mists  that 
lay  between  it  and  its  haven  of  rest. 

The  boy  looked  at  her  wonderingly ;  then  her  silence, 
and  her  strange,  far-off  look  filled  him  with  a  vague 
trouble.  He  slid  his  little  hand  into  hers  and  pulled 
her  toward  him,  exclaiming, 

"  Grandma !  grandma  !" 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  answered,  dreamily. 

"  Oh !  don't  look  as  if  you  were  going  away  !" 

Truly,  his  innocent  words,  whose  import  he  himself 
so  dimly  comprehended,  was  the  most  perfect  transla 
tion  of  that  look  which  words  could  have  found. 

"What  were  you  thinking  about,  grandma?" 

"  Thinking  ?     Ever  so  many  things — so  many !" 

"  Don't  the  years  seem  a  great  way  apart  to  you, 
grandma?" 

"  So  short ;  and  such  ages  and  ages  to  look  back  on," 
she  answered  ;  but  replying  more  to  her  own  thoughts 
than  seeking  to  make  her  words  plain  to  his  childish 
understanding. 

"  Why,  you  don't  have  birthdays  any  oftener  than  I, 
do  you?"  he  asked,  somewhat  jealously;  perhaps  afraid 
he  was  being  defrauded  of  his  rightful  dues  in  regard 
to  the  number  and  frequency  of  those  blessings  that 
grow  such  very  doubtful  ones  as  the  years  get  on. 


158         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"It's  only  that  they  seem  to  come  closer  and  closer, 
Joey,"  she  answered,  brushing  his  hair  back  from  his 
handsome  face.  "  When  anybody  gets  old,  little  boy, 
the  years  grow  very  short  in  passing,  and  so  long  to 
look  back  on." 

"  I  guess  I  don't  quite  understand  it  yet,  grandma," 
he  said,  with  a  somewhat  puzzled  look. 

"  Time  enough,  little  Joseph.  Don't  you  try  to  hurry 
things;  you'll  understand  soon  enough." 

"  Will  I  ?"  and  he  gave  a  sigh  of  relief — the  promise 
and  the  anticipation  were  almost  as  consoling  as  any 
reality — the  anticipations  of  childhood  are  so  golden  in 
the  light  of  the  future. 

Joseph  nestled  close  to  her  feet  on  the  little  stool, 
and,  resting  his  thoughts  on  the  promise  she  had  made, 
brought  himself  back  to  safer  themes,  both  as  regarded 
his  mental  capacities  and  the  old  lady's  peace. 

"  This  is  just  the  morning  for  a  good  long  talk,  ain't 
it,  grandmr,  ?"  he  said,  in  his  quaint,  old-fashioned  way, 
that  was  so  pretty  and  original. 

"Almost  any  morning  seems  just  the  one  for  you  and 
me,"  she  answered,  pleasantly,  taking  up  her  work  again, 
and  proceeding  to  make  amends  for  lost  time  with  great 
energy. 

"Well,  so  it  does,"  said  Joseph,  after  considering  the 
matter  for  a  little.  "You  and  I  don't  seem  to  get 
talked  out  very  easy,  do  we,  grandma  ?" 

"  Not  very,  dear ;  you  have  a  tolerably  busy  tongue 
of  your  own." 

"  Sister  Anna  says,  sometimes  she's  afraid  you  find  it 
most  too  long,"  said  Joe,  honestly. 

"There  isn't  any  danger  of  that,  my  boy;  it's  as 


THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.        159 

sweet  to  your  old  grandmother  as  the  birds'  songs  used 
to  be." 

"  Only  not  like  that  parrot  in  the  baker's  shop," 
amended  Joseph,  with  a  laugh. 

"  More  like  the  wood-thrushes  I  used  to  hear  up  in 
Vermont,"  she  said;  for  his  laughter  brought  back  again 
the  memory  of  the  brooks,  and  the  beautiful  summers 
that  lay  so  far  off  behind  the  shadows  of  all  those  later 
years. 

" How  does  a  wood-thrush  sing?" 

Then  there  had  to  be  an  elaborate  explanation ;  at  the 
end  of  which  he  must  ask,  in  great  haste : 

" Did  you  live  in  Yermont,  grandma?" 

"  No,  dear ;  but  I  spent  a  summer  there  once — so 
long,  long  ago." 

"  But  you  have  forgotten  about  it  ?" 

"  Forgotten,  child  ?   Oh !  I  couldn't  forget  it !" 

"Was  it  so  very  pleasant,  grandma?" 

The  feeling  that  surged  up  in  her  heart  was  like  a 
glow  from  her  perished  youth,  so  warm  and  powerful 
was  it ;  the  soft  wind  from  that  summer  of  the  past  blew 
across  her  soul  and  made  her  voice  sweet  as  a  psalm. 

"  So  pleasant,  Joey — so  pleasant !" 

"Was  grandpa  with  you?" 

"Yes  ;  he  was  there  part  of  the  time." 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  hear  about  it,"  said  Joe ; 
"it  sounds  like  a  story." 

So  it  was — the  story  every  youth  knows,  varied  ac 
cording  to  individual  experience;  but  the  old  story 
still,  that  is  always  so  beautiful. 

"Won't  you  tell  me  about  it,  grandma  ?" 

"  Indeed;  dear,  there  is  nothing  to  tell !     It  was  like 


160        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

a  story  to  me,  because  I  was  so  very,  very  happy,  and 
the  birds  sang  as  I  don't  think  they  ever  have  sung 
since ;  and  I  haven't  heard  any  thing,  either,  like  the 
sound  of  the  brooks,  only  your  dear  voice ;  and  it  was 
such  a  beautiful  time  of  rest." 

She  was  far  beyond  little  Joe's  comprehension  now ; 
but  the  unusual  look  in  her  face  interested  him,  and  her 
voice  sounded  like  a  blessing,  it  was  so'  soft  and  ca 
ressing. 

"  What  makes  you  think  the  birds  haven't  sung  so 
since  ?"  he  asked,  with  that  tendency  to  be  direct  and 
practical,  which  children  show  in  so  odd  a  way  when 
they  are  perplexed  by  a  conversation  that  makes  new 
echoes  in  their  untrained  souls. 

"  That  was  only  grandma's  foolish  fancy,"  she  said, 
trying  to  come  back  from  the  phantom  world,  where  her 
thoughts  had  wandered.  "  Dear  boy,  the  birds  never 
stop  singing !  Never  forget  that  as  you  grow  older, 
and  troubles  begin  to  weary  you.  Even  if  you  can't 
hear  them  for  a  time,  they  are  singing  still ;  and  so  are 
God's  blessed  angels,  too,  and  sometime  we  shall  hear 
both  clearly  again." 

"  Up  in  heaven,"  said  Joe,  gravely  and  thoughtfully. 

"  Up  in  heaven  1"  repeated  the  old  woman,  and  her 
voice  was  a  thanksgiving. 

The  boy  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  fast.  There  was 
an  expression  of  such  trust  and  hope,  making  her  face 
young  again,  that  a  vague  fear  shot  into  his  mind  that 
she  was  just  ready  to  float  away  from  his  sight  forever. 

"  Don't,  grandma  !"  he  exclaimed. 

"What,  dear?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS,         161 

"  Did  you  hear  'em  sing  ?"  he  whispered,  in  a  sort  of 
awe-stricken  way. 

"  What  do  3'ou  mean,  little  one  ?" 

"  You  looked  as  if  they  were  calling  you — the  angels, 
you  know.  You  won't  go  away  1" 

"  They  will  call  sometime,  my  boy,  and  your  poor, 
old,  tired  grandma  will  go  to  her  rest.  Only  we  must 
have  patience,  Joey — a  little  patience." 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  go,"  said  Joe,  stoutly ;  "  and  I 
don,'t  think  I  like  the  angels  either  I" 

"Why,  Joseph!"  said  the  old  lady,  startled  into  a 
practical  view  of  things  by  the  expression  of  a  senti 
ment  so  dreadfully  heterodox.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Not  like  the  angels  that  live  up  in  heaven  ?  Just  think 
a  little." 

"  Well,  they're  always  taking  folks  away,"  he  replied, 
rebelliously ;  "  and  I  wish  they  wouldn't !  I'm  sure 
they  can't  love  you  as  well  as  I  do,  for  I've  known  you 
all  my  life ;  and  they're  only  strangers,  after  all." 

Joe  spoke  as  solemnly  as  if  his  little  existence  had 
endured  several  scores  of  years ;  and  grandma,  in  spite 
of  feeling  it  her  duty  to  impress  a  proper  orthodox  les 
son  on  the  child's  mind,  could  not  help  a  smile  at  the 
idea  of  the  angels  being  considered  interlopers,  and  un 
justifiably  inclined  to  meddle  with  human  affairs. 

"  They  love  us,  Joey,"  she  said. 

"  Yes ;  but  not  so  well  as  we  love  each  other,  I  guess." 

"  They  come  to  take  us  home,"  she  added. 

"Then  I  want  'em  to  take  us  all  together,"  retorted 

Joe.     "  They  might  have  a  family  ticket,  as  they  had  at 

the  fair,"  he  added,  briskly,  after  meditating  a  little ; 

and  he  looked  quite  delighted  at  his  brilliant  suggestion. 

10 


162         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"Oh,  Joe!"  said  the  old  lady;  but  grandma's  devo 
tion  was  of  a  very  sweet  and  loveable  kind,  and,  certain 
that  the  child  had  meant  no  irreverence,  she  could  not 
quite  feel  it  her  duty  to  give  him  a  serious  lecture  upon 
the  enormity  of  giving  expression  to  such  proofs  of 
total  depravity. 

"That  wasn't  wicked,  was  it,  grandma?" 

"You  didn't  mean  it  to  be,  dear,"  she  answered,  soft 
ly.  "  But  you  must  remember  the  angels  do  love  us. 
and  they  wont  be  strangers  to  us  when  we  see  them." 

Joe  did  not  attempt  to  dispute  a  point  that  his  grand 
mother  stated  so  distinctly ;  but  he  remained  sufficiently 
doubtful  to  make  him  desirous  that  the  unseen  visitants 
should  not  hasten  their  coming ;  and  he  still  held  fast 
to  his  grandmother's  hand,  giving  a  long  breath  of  sat 
isfaction  when  he  saw  the  glow  of  exaltation  die  slowly 
out  of  her  face,  and  the  every-day  look  of  patience  and 
resignation  settle  down  over  its  pallor. 

"You  are  making  me  very  idle,"  said  the  old  lady, 
shaking  his  little  fingers  gently  off  her  hand  ;  "  and  we 
both  forgot  you  haven't  said  any  lesson  this  morning, 
little  boy." 

"  I'll  get  my  book,"  said  Joe,  rising  with  his  usual 
prompt  obedience,  rather  glad  to  get  his  mind  back  to 
safer  and  firmer  ground.  "I'll  say  a  good  long  one, 
grandma,  to  make  up." 

"That's  my  good  boy." 

So  the  lesson  was  gone  through  with  great  earnest 
ness,  and  with  the  most  entire  satisfaction  on  both 
sides;  for  Joe  was  as  quick  at  his  book  as  with  his 
queer  fancies  that  made  him  so  pleasant  a  companion 
to  the  old  lady. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        163 

"There's  somebody  coming  lip-stairs,"  said  Joe,  as 
he  closed  his  book  after  receiving  a  kiss  of  approval. 
"  Oh  !  it's  Anna,"  he  added,  as  the  door  opened,  and  the 
girl  entered. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  expect  you  home  so  soon,  dear,"  said 
the  old  lady. 

"  I  brought  the  work  to  do  it  here,"  she  answered, 
laying  her  bundle  on  the  table. 

"I  am  glad  of  that;  it's  always  pleasant  to  have  you 
at  home." 

"But  grandma  wasn't  lonesome,"  added  Joe,  hastily. 
"  We  have  had  one  of  our  good  old  talks,  haven't  we, 
grandma?" 

"Yes,  dear." 

"And  I  said  my  lesson  splendid,  Anna,"  he  continued, 
too  eager  to  be  quite  grammatical. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  answered,  a  little  absently, 
and  passed  on  into  the  little  room  she  called  her  own, 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

She  was  not  accustomed  to  lose  much  time  in  dream 
ing  or  idling ;  but  then  she  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and 
threw  her  bonnet  wearily  away,  as  if  her  head  ached 
even  under  its  light  weight. 

She  looked  weary  and  disheartened — the  look  so  pain 
ful  to  see  in  a  young  face ;  so  sad  to  feel  that  life's  iron 
hands  settle  too  heavily  over  all  the  youthful  dreams 
and  hopes  that  ought  to  make  youth  joyous  and  beau 
tiful. 

There  she  sat  quiet,  and  absorbed  in  her  thoughts  till 
the  tired  look  wore  away ;  and  if  there  had  been  any  to 
see,  they  might  have  told  accurately  by  the  expression 
of  her  face,  and  the  new  light  in  her  eyes,  how  her 


164        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

thoughts  stole,  gradually,  from  the  stern,  harsh  reality 
into  the  realm  of  some  beautiful  dream-land,  whose 
flower-wreathed  gates  no  care  or  trouble  could  pass. 

She  was  so  young  and  so  lovely — ah,  let  her  dream 
on  1  The  stern  reality  lay  just  outside ;  the  brightness 
of  elf-land  might  only  make  its  coldness  more  bleak 
when  she  was  forced  to  return ;  but  I  would  have  hesi 
tated  to  take  from  her  the  ability  to  wander  away  among 
her  glorious  visions. 

There  comes  a  time  when  we  can  dream  no  longer — 
you  and  I  know  it.  But  would  we  lose  the  memory  of 
the  reason  when  such  reveries  were  more  real  than  the 
details  of  the  untried  existence  about  us  ? 

I  think  not.  I  am  sure  not ;  and  since  care  and  suf 
fering  must  come,  and  every  human  heart  learn  its  ap 
propriate  lesson,  I  would  not  deprive  the  young  of  any 
share  of  the  glow  and  brightness  which  belongs  to  that 
feverish  season ;  and  you  and  I  both  know  that  its  chief 
sunshine  comes  from  that  ability  to  weave  golden  visions, 
and  sit  in  breathless  ecstasy  under  their  light.  And 
then  Joseph's  voice  called  outside  the  door, 

"Anna — sister  Anna?" 

"Yes,  dear;  I  am  coming." 

The  dream-world  vanished  ;  the  rose-clustered  portals 
closed,  and  she  came  back  to  the  real  life — came  back, 
as  we  all  must.  But,  oh !  woe  for  the  day  when  the  fairy 
gates  close  with  a  dreary  clang,  and  we  know  that  never 
for  us  can  they  open  again  "  till  these  hearts  be  clay." 

She  passed  into  the  outer  room,  where  Joseph  was 
very  busily  engaged  in  helping,  or  hindering  his  grand 
mother  to  array  herself  in  the  worn  shawl  and  bonnet, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    o  K  r  H  A  -N  s .        165 

which  had  so  long  before  done  duty  enough  to  have  en 
titled  them  to  pass  out  of  service. 

"  Grandma  and  I  are  going  for  a  little  walk,  Anna," 
he  said,  in  his  quaint  way.  "  I  think  it'll  do  her  good." 

"  Dear  boy,"  said  the  old  lady,  with  her  sweet  smile ; 
"  there  never  was  such  a  thoughtful  creature." 

"  I  am  sure  it  will  do  you  good,  grandmother,"  Anna 
said  ;  "  but  you  must  put  my  shawl  on  under  yours  ;  the 
wind  blows  cold." 

Joseph  ran  off  to  get  it,  and  the  pair  wrapped  the  old 
lady  up  with  a  fondness  and  attention  which  many  a 
rich  woman  would  give  all  her  India  shawls,  and  diam 
onds  to  boot,  to  receive  from  her  children. 

Then  Joseph  led  her  carefully  down  the  stairs,  and 
Anna  brought  her  pile  of  work  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down 
in  her  grandmother's  chair.  She  could  not  afford  to 
waste  the  precious  moments  with  so  much  dependent 
upon  her  exertions ;  but  fast  as  her  fingers  flew,  still 
faster  travelled  her  young,  unwearied  thoughts ;  and 
that  they  were  pleasant  ones  one  could  have  told  by  the 
smile  that  stole  every  now  and  then,  like  a  ray  of  sun 
light,  across  her  mouth,  brightening  her  beauty  into 
something  positively  dazzling. 

There  was  a  quick  knock  at  the  door,  but  supposing 
it  to  be  some  of  the  neighbor's  children  on  an  errand, 
Anna  did  not  pause  in  her  work,  calling  out  dreamily, 

"  Come  in." 

The  door  opened  hesitatingly,  and  Anna  added,  "  Is 
it  you,  little  Alice  Romaine  ?" 

"  It  is  not  little  Alice  ;  but  may  I  come  in?" 

Anna  sprang  to  her  feet  in  astonishment  and  turned 


166        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

toward  the  door,  and  stood  confronting  Georgiana  Hal- 
stead. 

"  Excuse  me,"  Georgiana  said,  hastily,  in  her  grace 
ful,  childlike  way.  "  I  thought  Rowena  might  come  to 
see  Rebecca.  You  are  not  vexed,  are  you  ?" 

In  spite  of  her  retired  life,  Anna  was  too  truly  a  lady 
to  feel  either  confusion  or  embarrassment ;  not  even 
shame  at  the  exposure  of  their  dreary  poverty,  but  one 
of  those  flashes  of  thoughts,  which  travel  like  lightning 
through  the  mind,  struck  her  painfully  as  she  looked  at 
Georgiana  Halstead  standing  there  in  her  beautiful 
dress,  like  the  goddess  of  luxury  come  to  look  poverty 
in  the  face,  and  find  out  what  it  was  like. 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to  come  so  much,"  continued 
the  girl,  going  up  to  Anna  and  holding  out  her  hand. 

"You  are  very  kind,"  she  answered,  pleasantly 
enough ;  and  the  momentary  bitterness  died  in  cordial 
admiration  of  her  visitor's  loveliness. 

They  made  a  beautiful  picture  as  they  stood,  and  the 
contrast  only  added  to  the  charms  of  either.  Had  a 
painter  desired  models  for  the  patrician  descendant  of 
Saxon  kings,  and  the  dark,  passionate-eyed  Jewess,  he 
could  not  have  found  more  perfect  representatives,  at 
least  of  his  ideal. 

"  Will  you  sit  down  ?"  Anna  said.  "  It  was  very  kind 
of  you  to  come." 

Her  composure  was  quite  restored,  brought  back 
more  completely,  perhaps,  by  a  pretty  little  hesitation 
in  Georgiana's  manner,  such  as  a  petted  child  miglil 
betray  when  venturing  upon  some  step  for  which  it 
feared  reproval. 

"  Thank  you  ;  ah  !  it's  nice  of  you  not  to  be  offended," 


THE   SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.        167 

said  Georgiana,  sitting  down  by  the  fire.  "  Mrs.  Sav 
age  gave  me  your  address  ;  and  ever  since  the  tableau 
I  have  been  so  wanting  to  come." 

"  In  what  way  can  I  serve  you  ?"  Anna  asked,  with  a 
proud  humility. 

"  Oh,  now !  if  you  are  going  to  be  stately,  you  will 
frighten  me  off  altogether,"  cried  Georgiana ;  "  so 
please  don't,  for  I'm  not  at  all  stately  myself." 

Anna  smiled  as  a  queen  might  have  smiled  at  a 
spoiled  child.  Ah  I  the  spell  of  wealth  and  station  may 
be  ever  so  strong,  there  is  a  power  in  nature's  patents 
of  nobility  which  is  stronger  still. 

"  I  don't  think  I  know  much  about  being  stately," 
she  said,  with  one  of  her  rare  laughs,  which  were  so 
musical.  "  Certainly  it  would  be  a  poor  way  of  showing 
my  thanks  for  your  kindness  in  even  remembering  me." 

"As  if  anybody  could  forget  you !  Why,  the  whole 
city  has  been  raving  about  you  ever  since  that  night !" 
exclaimed  Georgiana  ;  "and  the  men  have  done  nothing 
but  beg  Mrs.  Savage  for  another  sight  of  the  queen  of 
beauty." 

Such  words  would  have  been  very  pleasant  to  a  young 
girl  whose  life  was  golden  as  youtu  ought  to  be ;  but  to 
Anna,  oppressed  with  care  and  daily  anxieties,  they 
brought  only  a  bitter  pain. 

Dear  Mrs.  Browning  has  told  us  in  her  passionate 
way — 

11  How  dreary  'tis  for  women  to  sit  still, 
On  Winter  nights,  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them  far  off." 

And  more  than  one  woman's  heart  has  ached  to  feel  its 
truth ;  but  truly,  for  a  woman  to  hear  that  her  beatuy  is 


168         THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

the  theme  of  idle  tongues,  wiiile  she  sees  those  dear  as 
her  own  life  almost  hungering  for  bread,  is  a  bitter  com 
ment  still  011  the  vanity  of  human  life. 

"  So  I  thought  I  would  come,"  continued  Georgiana  ; 
"  and  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favor." 

"If  I  can,"  Anna  said;  "but  don't  ask  me  to  take 
part  in  any  more  such  exhibitions.  I  can't,  indeed  I 
can't." 

11  No,  no  !"  returned  Georgiana,  hastily  ;  "  I  wont. 
You  shall  not  be  bothered.  But  I'll  tell  you  what  I 
wish  you  would  do.  Now  do  you  promise  ?" 

"I  think  I  ma3V  Anna  replied,  with  her  lovely 
smile.  "  You  don't  look  as  if  you  could  ask  any  thing 
very  terrible." 

"  Indeed  I  wont !"  cried  she,  in  her  enthusiastic  way. 
"  I  like  you  so  much  ;  don't  be  vexed.  I  don't  want  to 
be  patronizing  or  snobbish.  I  hate  it  so  ;  but " 

"  I  am  sure  you  don't.     Please  go  on." 

"  Well,  I'm  such  a  sad,  idle  creature,  and  I  thought 
if  you  would  come  to  me,  sometimes,  and  help  me  get 
through  a  perfect  pyramid  of  embroidery,  and  work 
that  has  been  accumulating  since  the  year  one,  I  should 
be  so  delighted." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  the  work,  Miss  Halstead,  and 
I  thank  you  heartily  for  remembering  me." 

"  Oh !  don't  speak  that  way.  It's  I  that  ought  to 
thank  you  !  Why,  it  will  be  a  perfect  treat  just  to  sit 
and  look  at  anybody  as  beautiful  as  you  are." 

"  And  I  shall  have  that  satisfaction  over  and  above 
the  satisfaction  of  getting  the  work,  of  which  I  am  so 
very,  very  glad." 

There  was  an  earnestness  in  her  voice  which  sobered 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS.         169 

the  volatile  creature  who  listened.  Her  life  had  been 
such  a  fairy  dream  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  realize 
there  were  such  evils  as  care  and  poverty  in  the  world. 
It  seemed  so  inexplicable  to  her  that  this  beautiful  girl 
could  come,  day  after  day,  in  actual  contact  with  them. 

"  I  will  try  and  make  it  pleasant  for  you,"  she  said, 
more  gravely  than  she  often  spoke.  "I  am  a  spoiled, 
selfish  girl,  but  I  mean  to  be  good." 

"  I  think  you  would  find  it  difficult  to  be  any  thing 
else,"  Anna  said,  heartily. 

"  Oh !  you  don't  know.  Aunt  Eliza  reads  me  the 
most  frightful  lectures ;  by  the  way,  she  is  a  sad,  catty 
old  maid  ;  but  don't  you  mind  her." 

Then  she  began  talking  with  her  accustomed  volu 
bility  ;  and  it  was  as  bewitching  to  poor,  lonely  Anna 
as  the  Arabian  Nights  are  to  children.  It  seemed  so 
strange  to  have  these  glimpses  at  a  young  life  so  widely 
separated  from  the  clouds  that  hung  over  her  own  youth. 

Georgiana  Halstead  never  did  things  by  halves ;  and 
in  her  usual  headlong  way,  she  had  plunged  into  a  vio 
lent  interest  for  this  lovely  stranger,  and  sat  there  talk 
ing  to  her  as  freely  as  if  she  had  known  her  half  a  life. 

"  I  must  be  going !"  she  exclaimed,  at  last.  "  Oh,  dear 
me !  I  have  been  out  ages ;  and  Aunt  Eliza  is  waiting 
for  the  carriage  ;  how  she  will  scold  me  !  Then  you'll 
come,  miss  ?  Mayn't  I  call  you  Anna  ?" 

"  Indeed  you  may." 

"Thanks  !  I  like  you  so  much.  You  are  like  a  pic 
ture,  or  a  poem.  Now,  please  like  me." 

"  Just  as  a  prisoner  might  the  sunlight !"  exclaimed 
Anna,  with  unconscious  earnestness. 


170    THE  SOLDIEK'S  ORPHANS. 

Georgiana  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss,  and  a  cordial  pres 
sure  of  the  hand. 

"  Come  to-morrow,"  she  said.     "  Now  wont  you  ?" 

Before  Anna  could  answer,  there  was  a  knock  at  the 
door,  which  startled  them  both — they  had  been  so  com 
pletely  absorbed. 

"Who  is  that?"  Georgiana  asked. 

"  Only  some  of  the  neighbors,  probably,"  Anna 
answered.  "  Come  in,  please." 

The  door  opened.  The  girls  turned  simultaneously 
toward  it,  and  there  stood  Horace  Savage. 

He  advanced  without  any  hesitation,  saying, 

"  Excuse  my  intrusion,  Miss  Burns.  Ah,  Miss 
Georgiana,  this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure." 

The  girl's  brow  contracted  slightly ;  her  quick  glance 
went  from  one  to  the  other. 

"  And  to  me,  also,"  she  said. 

There  had  been  one  vivid  burst  of  crimson  across 
Anna  Burns'  cheek ;  then  it  faded,  leaving  her  paler 
than  before ;  but  she  stood  there  perfectly  quiet  and 
self-possessed. 

"  Will  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Savage  ?  If  Miss  Halstead 
will  wait  a  moment  she  wont  have  to  go  down  our  dark 
staircase  alone." 

"Miss  Halstead  never  waits,"  returned  Georgiana, 
laughingly ;  but  the  childlike  glee  had  forsaken  both 
voice  and  face. 

"  My  errand  is  a  very  brief  one,"  said  Horace.  "  I 
only  wanted  to  inquire  after  my  little  pets,  the  boys.  I 
hope  Miss  Burns  will  not  consider  me  impertinent." 

"  I  thank  you,"  Anna  said  ;  "  they  are,  both  of  them, 
out  now  " 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        171 

"  Dear  me,  it  is  very  late,"  said  Georgiana.  "  Good- 
by,  Miss  Burns.  You  wont  forget  ?" 

But  the  voice  was  colder,  and  Anna  noticed  it. 

"  I  shall  be  at  Miss  Halstead's  command,"  she  said, 
gravely. 

"And  I  shall  do  myself  the  honor  of  seeing  her  safely 
down  the  stairs,"  said  Horace. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  but  ran  away  through 
the  passage.  He  stood  a  second  irresolute.  Anna's 
grave  face  did  not  change ;  and  after  a  few  confused 
words  he  followed  Georgiana  Halstead  down  the  stairs. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LOVE     AND     MALICE. 

SAVAGE  walked  home  with  Georgiana'  Halstead,  but 
there  was  little  conversation  between  them.  She  was  a 
good  deal  excited,  and  walked  with  a  quick,  almost  im 
petuous  step,  while  her  eyes  brightened,  her  lips  parted, 
and  a  warm  red  came  into  her  cheeks.  She  said  nothing, 
and  seemed  almost  to  wish  the  handsome  young  fellow 
by  her  side  far  away  ;  his  presence  annoyed  her. 

Savage  was  grave,  anxious,  and  so  pre-occupied  that 
he  did  not  observe  this  change  in  the  graceful  young 
creature  whose  friendship  had  alwaj^s  been  so  dear  to 
him:  When  they  reached  Mrs.  Halstead's  residence 
he  hesitated  a  moment,  lifted  his  hat,  and  said,  with  a 
smile, 

"May  I  go  in,  Miss  Georgie?" 


172  THE     SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Certainly,  of  course  ;  how  rude  I  was,"  she  answer 
ed,  and  the  color  on  her  cheeks  flushed  over  her  whole 
face  in  a  scarlet  cloud.  "  They  will  all  be  glad  to  see 
you." 

"But  I  would  rather  see  you  alone,  just  for  once, 
in  your  own  pretty  room — is  it  quite  inadmissible  ?" 

"  In  my  room  ?  Well,  why  not  ?  Come  this  way.  I 
only  hope  Aunt  Eliza  won't  be  looking  over  the  ban 
nisters." 

Georgie  laughed,  in  spite  of  all  the  painful  feelings 
that  swelled  her  young  heart,  when  she  looked  upward, 
with  her  foot  upon  the  first  stair,  and  saw  the  long  face 
of  Miss  Eliza  peering  down  upon  her. 

Savage,  too,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  restless  female, 
and  joined  Georgie  in  her  sweet,  low  laugh,  but  decor 
ously  pretended  not  to  see  that  tall  figure  as  it  drew 
back  and  darted  away. 

The  young  people  entered  Georgie 's  little  sitting 
room.  Savage  placed  his  hat  on  one  of  the  mosaic 
tables,  Georgie  placed  her  bonnet  beside  it,  and  threw 
her  India  shawl  across  a  chair,  unconsciously  forming 
a  sumptuous  drapery  which  swept  the  carpet. 

"  Upon  my  word,"  she  said,  shaking  her  bright  curls 
loose,  and  pressing  them  back  from  her  flushed  cheeks 
with  both  hands,  "  this  seems  romantic.  I  wonder  what 
Aunt  Eliza  will  say  ?" 

"Never  mind  what  she  says." 

"  Oh  !  but  you  would  mind,  if  she  lived  in  the  house 
with  you ;  but  there  is  dear,  old  grandmamma  to  help 
me  out  if  she  bears  down  too  hard — so  find  yourself  a 
chair.  The  fire  is  delightful  after  our  cold  walk.  What 
a  change  it  is  from  that  room  to  this  ?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN-S.        173 

Georgiana  had  seated  herself  in  the  Turkish  chair, 
and  sat  nestled  in  its  cushions,  with  the  firelight  glim 
mering  over  her  as  she  made  this  remark.  Savage  drew 
a  low  ottoman  to  her  side,  and  sat  down  upon  it. 

"  You  were  thinking  of  that  garret-room  in  the  tene 
ment  house?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  and  thinking,  too,  how  thoughtless  and  un 
grateful  I  am  for  all  this  comfort,  for  which  I  have  done 
nothing,  while " 

Georgie  broke  off,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  softly 
and  "brightly  as  violets  gather  dew. 

"While  that  poor  girl  is  compelled  to  toil  for  the 
bare  necessaries  of  life ;  that's  what  was  in  your  heart, 
I  know,"  said  Savage,  taking  her  hand  gently  in  his. 
"I — I  would  speak  to  you  about  her." 

"To  me— and  about  her?"  said  Ge&gie,  drawing  her 
hand  away.  "  I  scarcely  know  her.  She  is  a  nice  girl, 
I  dare  say ;  but  why  should  any  one  wish  to  talk  to  me 
about  her?" 

"  Because  you  are  good  and  generous ;  because  she 
is  helpless  and  beautiful." 

"  Beautiful ! — is  she  ?  I  did  not  particularly  observe 

it.  A  brunette,  isn't  she?  Some  people  like  that  style.  I 

I — but  you  had  something  to  say,  and  I  interrupted  3rou." 

"  Oh,  Miss  Halstead !  you  could  be  of  such  service  to 
this  sweet  girl." 

"I  of  service  to  her?"  said  Georgie,  lifting  her  head 
with  a  little  fling  of  pride.  "  I  thank  you  for  the  idea. 
What  does  she  want  of  me  ?" 

"What,  Anna  Burns?  Nothing.  Poor  girl!  she  is 
not  one  to  ask  help  ;  but  knowing  you  so  good  and  gen- 


174         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

tie,  I  thought  to  interest  you  in  her  behalf.     She  is  a 
lady." 

"  Yes,  yes !  she  is  nice  and  very  lady-like,  I  admit 
that ;  and  good  as  she  is  beautiful.  That  means  noth 
ing,  Mr.  Savage.  When  beauty  lies  in  the  fancy  of  the 
beholder,  we  cannot  measure  other  qualities  by  it,"  said 
Geo-rgie.  "  Please  go  on  and  tell  me  what  I  can  do  ?" 

"  You  can  do  every  thing  for  this  young  girl.  She  is 
so  lonely,  so  isolated  in  that  comfortless  place." 

"Yes,  it  is  terrible,"  cried  Georgie,  shivering  among 
her  cushions.  "  Yet  you  did  not  seem  to  find  it  so  very 
disagreeable." 

"  No  place  where  she  is  can  be  disagreeable  to  me," 
answered  Savage,  with  deep  feeling. 

Georgie  turned  white,  and  shrunk  back  in  her  chair, 
as  if  some  one  had  struck  her.  Her  voice  scarcely  rose 
above  a  whisper  when  she  forced  it  into  words, 

"  You  love  this  girl,  then  ?" 

"  Love  her,  Georgie  ?  Yes,  better  than  my  life — bet 
ter  than  all  the  world  beside  !" 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  Georgie 's  lovely 
face  grew  cold  and  white  as  marble.  She  seemed  to 
wither  up  like  a  flower  cut  at  the  stalks.  The  very  lips 
were  pale.  At  last  an  almost  noiseless  sob  broke 
through  them,  and  she  started  into  life. 

"  Does  she  love  you?" 

"  I  hope,  I  think  so.     She  has  said  as  much." 

"  And  then?" 

"  Oh  !  my  sweet  friend,  it  is  for  her  I  want  your  help. 
I  know  how  difficult  it  will  be  to  reconcile  my  mother ; 
she  has  such  lofty  expectations  regarding  me." 

"Who  has  not?"  murmured  Georgie. 


THE   SOLDIER'S    o  ETHAN'S.        175 

"  Do  you  know,"  cried  Savage,  laughing,  and  patting 
her  hand  as  if  it  had  been  a  pet  bird  he  was  playing 
with,  so  much  occupied  that  he  did  not  feel  its  marble 
coldness,  or  read  the  agony  in  those  shrinking  eyes, 
"  do  you  know  she  has  set  her  heart  on  making  a 
match  between  you  and  me ;  as  if  people  who  have 
played  together  in  childhood  ever  fell  in  love  with  each 
other ;  but  she  will  not  give  up  this  hope  without  a 
struggle,  though  I  have  told  her  fifty  times  that  we  like 
each  other  too  well  for  love." 

"You  are  right,  we  do,"  said  the  lovely  young  crea 
ture,  sitting  upright,  and  putting  the  hair  back  from  her 
throbbing  temples.  "  What  an  idea !"  and  a  laugh  broke 
from  her  which  startled  him  a  little  ;  there  was  such  a 
ring  of  pain  in  it. 

"  She  is  so  fond  of  you,  Georgie.  Indeed,  who  could 
help  it  ?  Then  we  have  been  a  good  deal  together.  I 
got  a  habit  of  coming  here  somehow,  and  it  wasn't  so 
very  strange,  after  all ;  only  it  seems  absurd  to  us,  who 
never  thought  of  such  a  thing." 

"Yes,  very  absurd,"  cried  Georgie,  with  another 
laugh,  which  brought  fresh  tears  into  her  eyes. 

"And  now,  when  I  am  in  such  deadly  earnest,  when 
I  would  give  the  world  to  make  Anna  Burns  my  wife, 
even  this  foolish  idea  comes  up  as  an  obstacle." 

"  But  you  have  told  your  mother  that  there  is  nothing 
in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  fifty  times  ;  but  she  will  not  believe  me." 

"  She  will  believe  me  when  I  tell  her  it  is  impossible 
— ridiculous  !" 

Poor  Georgie,  she  caught  her  breath,  and  broke  up  a 
great  sob  before  she  could  utter  the  word  ridiculous ; 


176        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

bat  carried  it  off  with  a  laugh,  which  the  blind  young 
fellow  passed  over  without  a  thought  of  the  pain  which 
made  it  sound  so  unlike  her  usual  silvery  outgushes  of 
merriment. 

"  Will  you  do  this,  Georgie  ?  Say  that  you  never 
fancied  me  in  that  light,  that  nothing  would  induce  you 
to  marry  me?" 

"  But  she — she  will  hate  me  forever  after,"  said 
Georgie,  mournfully;  "and  I  think  she  did  like  me." 

"  Oh  !  it  will  not  last  a  month  ;  and  I — I  shall  love 
you  so  dearly  for  this  help.  Anna,  also,  you  cannot 
think  how  much  she  admires  you." 

"  I  am  sure  she  is  very  kind." 

"  Kind — no !  She  is  only  the  most  appreciative  crea 
ture  in  the  world.  Then  you  are  my  friend  ?" 

Georgie  shrunk  from  all  this  praise,  which  was  bitter 
when  mingled  with  that  of  another  so  much  more  be 
loved  than  she  ever  was,  and  desperately  changed  the 
subject. 

"  But  there  was  something  else;  you  had  more  than 
this  on  your  mind." 

"  But  I  shall  oppress  you  with  my  selfishness.' 

"No,  that  you  cannot.  I — I  shall  only  be  too  happy 
in  serving  you." 

"  That  is  my  old,  dear  friend,"  cried  the  young  man, 
looking  brightly  into  her  face,  which  must  have  struck 
him  as  strangely  pallid  but  for  the  firelight  that  fell 
upon  it.  "  Do  you  know,  Georgie,  that  something  in 
your  way  of  receiving  my  confidence  has  almost  chilled 
me?" 

"  Indeed,  it  is  because  you  cannot  read  my  heart — 
that  is  not  cold ;  try  it  and  see." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         177 

"  I  am  trying  it,"  answered  Savage,  quite  unconscious 
of  the  cruel  truth  he  spoke.  "  Last  night,  as  I  thought 
all  this  over  in  my  room,  I  said  if  there  is  a  creature  on 
earth  that  I  can  trust,  heart  and  soul,  it  is  Georgiana 
Halstead." 

"And  so  you  can,"  cried  Georgie,  holding  out  both 
her  trembling  hands,  which  he  clasped  eagerly.  "  I  am 
not  very  strong,  and  sometimes  I  have  felt  pain ;  but  I 
will  be  your  faithful  friend." 

"And  hers,  Georgie?" 

"  Yes,  and  hers,"  answered  the  young  creature, 
bravely.  "  Now  tell  me  what  more  can  I  do  ?" 

"  I  will,  Georgie.  This  girl,  Anna  Burns,  you  know, 
is  very  poor.  Her  father  was  an  artist,  and,  I  think, 
must  have  been  educated  as  a  gentleman,  for  his  children 
have  received  great  care ;  but  he  died  in  the  army,  and 
left  his  family  helpless,  even  more  destitute  than  you 
saw  them  to-day." 

"  Dear  me,"  murmured  Georgie,  glad  of  any  excuse  to 
weep,  "that  seems  scarcely  possible." 

"  How  kind  you  are  ;  so  tender-hearted,  so  good — do 
not  cry.  How  you  sob !  There,  there !  the  worst  of 
this  suffering  is  over  now.  A  little  help  will  make  them 
comfortable." 

Georgie  buried  her  face  in  both  hands,  and  gave  way 
to  the  grief  that  had  been  struggling  in  her  heart  till  it 
was  almost  broken. 

Savage  rose,  and  bent  over  her,  smoothing  her  bright 
hair  caressingly  with  his  hand. 

"Dear,  tender-hearted  girl,"  he  said,  full  of  self-re 
proach  :    "  and   I   thought   her   cold,   unsympathizing. 
Georgie,  can  you  forgive  me  ?" 
11 


178        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Forgive  you !  forgive  you  I"  repeated  the  poor  girl, 
removing  her  hands,  and  lifting  those  deep,  troubled 
eyes  to  his  face.  "  Oh,  yes  !  I  am  sure  to  forgive  you  ; 
but  what  a  child  I  have  been,  crying  about  troubles  that 
are  nothing.  Now  tell  me  what  it  is  that  I  can  do  for 
these  people.  It  is  a  shame  that  any  man  who  has  died 
fighting  for  his  country  should  leave  suffering  to  his 
family." 

"  But  many  a  soldier's  family  have  suffered,  and  will, 
notwithstanding  the  people's  gratitude.  This  is  what  I 
desire  of  you.  This  family  are  even  now  suffering  great 
privation.  It  is  terrible  for  refined  and  educated  per 
sons  to  be  crowded,  as  they  are,  under  the  roof  of  a 
house  crowded  with  low  families.  You  saw  how  pale 
they  were ;  what  a  look  of  weariness  lay  even  on  the 
faces  of  the  children.  They  need  neat,  airy  apartments, 
pure  air,  wholesome  food.  All  this  it  would  be  easy  to 
give ;  but  I  cannot  do  it  in  my  own  person." 

"  Why  not  ?"  inquired  Georgie,  in  her  innocence. 

Savage  smiled,  and  began  to  smooth  her  hair  again. 

"  Simply  for  this  reason,  dear  friend :  that  nice  old 
lady  would  not  take  a  dollar  of  my  money  for  any  pur 
pose  ;  nor  would  Anna,  I  am  certain.  But  from  you  it 
would  be  different.  Let  me  find  the  money,  and  you 
shall  be  my  agent — the  fairest  and  sweetest  that  ever 
served  a  friend." 

"  I  understand  now.  Yes,  you  are  right ;  they  could 
not  receive  benefits  from  you  ;  but  I  am  different.  Let 
me  once  reach  their  hearts,  and  all  will  be  eas}T." 

" Then  you  will  do  this?" 

"  Why  should  you  ask  me  ?     Have  I  not  promised  ? 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        179 

But  I  only  ask  one  privilege  ;  let  me  tell  grandmamma. 
She  will  help  me  as  no  one  else  can." 

"  But  will  she  consent  ?     Will  she  keep  our  secret  ?" 

"  What,  grandmamma  ?     Of  course  she  will." 

Here  a  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  the  young  people. 
Savage  drew  back  and  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece, 
while  Georgie  bade  the  intruder  enter. 

A  servant  came  in  with  Miss  Eliza  Halstead's  com 
pliments,  and  she  trusted  Mr.  Savage  would  give  her  a 
few  moments'  conversation  up-stairs  before  he  left  the 
house.  Miss  Eliza  had  something  very  particular,  in 
deed,  which  she  wished  to  communicate. 

Mr.  Savage  sent  word  that  he  should  be  delighted  to 
pay  his  respects  to  Miss  Eliza,  and  would  do  himself 
that  honor  in  a  few  minutes. 

The  servant  closed  the  door.  Then  Savage,  with  ar 
dent  thanks,  that  went  to  the  young  girl's  heart  like 
arrows  tipped  with  flame,  took  his  leave  of  Georgiana, 
and  left  her  alone  with  her  wounded  life. 

Miss  Eliza  had  been  in  a  state  of  wild  commotion 
from  the  moment  she  saw  young  Savage  enter  the  house 
from  her  stand-point-  over  the  banisters.  She,  too,  had 
her  boudoir,  which,  however,  was  half  dressing-room, 
into  which  she  made  a  plunge  with  a  breathless  deter 
mination  to  convert  the  confusion,  which  usually  reigned 
there,  into  a  state  of  picturesque  elegance,  suggestive 
of  her  own  poetic  mind.  To  this  end  she  hustled  a  pile 
of  paper-covered  books,  two  or  three  pairs  of  old  slip 
pers,  a  faded  bouquet,  and  a  dilapidated  dressing-case 
into  the  next  room  ;  dusted  the  tables  with  a  fold  of  her 
morning-wrapper,  in  which  she  had  been  indolently 
reading,  and  then  took  a  general  survey  of  the  apart- 


180         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

ment.  Over  the  small  centre-table,  which  she  had  just 
dusted,  hung  a  basket  of  artificial  flowers,  somewhat 
faded  and  dusty,  but  in  good  preservation,  considering 
that  they  had  done  duty  for  more  than  one  season  on 
Miss  Eliza's  head.  Over  this,  apparently  plunging 
downward,  as  if  intent  on  burying  himself  in  the  flow 
ers,  dust  or  no  dust,  was  a  moderately-sized  cupid, 
white  as  snow,  suspended  to  the  ceiling  by  an  invisible 
wire,  and  holding  his  arms  out  toward  the  flowers  which 
that  envious  wire  permitted  him  to  contemplate,  but 
forebade  him  to  reach. 

Miss  Eliza  glanced  up  at  the  cupid  with  a  simpering 
smile,  made  a  dash  at  the  basket  with  her  handkerchief, 
which  set  both  that  and  the  cupid  in  motion,  and  made 
another  application  to  the  table  necessary ;  then  scat 
tering  some  books  over  it  in  picturesque  confusion,  she 
took  a  volume  of  Tennyson,  laid  it  open,  with  the  leaves 
downward,  on  the  edge  of  the  table,  drew  an  easj^-chair 
into  position,  and  hurried  into  her  bed-chamber. 

Miss  Eliza  never  allowed  any  person  to  witness  the 
mysteries  of  her  toilet,  so  I  cannot  describe  what  took 
place  in  the  inner  room.  But  after  a  time  she  came 
forth,  radiant,  in  a  white  merino  dress,  ruffled  half  a 
yard  deep  with  convolutions  of  blue  ribbons.  Long 
streamers  of  the  same  color  fell  from  the  clustering 
bows  on  her  shoulders,  and  another  ribbon  was  drawn, 
snood  fashion,  through  a  mass  of  crimped  hair  lifted 
high  from  her  temples,  and  floated  off  airity  with  a 
mass  of  curls  that  fell  from  the  back  of  her  head. 

Miss  Eliza  rang  the  bell,  turned  up  her  eyes  with  a 
devout  look,  which  made  the  little  cupid  tremble  on  his 
wire,  and  sunk  into  her  easy-chair,  smiling  upon  the 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         181 

folds  of  her  dress  as  they  settled  around  her  with  stat 
uesque  effect.  Then  a  new  idea  seized  upon  her.  A 
gardiniere,  full  of  plants,  stood  in  one  of  the  windows. 
In  eager  haste  Miss  Eliza  gathered  therefrom  two  or 
three  sweet-scented  geranium  leaves,  and  a  half-open 
rose ;  these  she  placed  on  her  bosom,  and  returned  to 
her  seat  beneath  the  cupid,  and  sat  waiting  with  her 
hand  upon  the  volume  of  Tennyson,  and  one  foot 
pressed  upon  an  ottoman,  as  if  she  had  been  sitting  for 
a  portrait. 

I  am  certain  she  heard  that  light  footstep  the  moment 
it  touched  the  stairs,  thick  as  the  carpet  was,  for  a  soft 
flutter  of  delight  stirred  her  garments  as  if  they  had 
been  the  plumage  of  a  bird  ;  and  starting  suddenly,  she 
stood  a  moment  on  the  ottoman,  flirting  her  handker 
chief  upward  till  the  cupid  went  off  in  an  ecstasy  of 
motion,  and  seemed  quite  unable  to  contain  itself.  Then 
she  settled  down  again,  and  cried  out  softly,  "  Come  in," 
when  Savage  knocked  at  the  door. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Savage !  how  long  you  have  been  in 
coming,"  she  said,  reaching  forth  her  left  hand  with  a 
motion  which  threw  the  sleeve  back  from  an  arm  that 
had  once  been  round  and  white,  but  keeping  her  seat 
all  the  time,  not  caring  to  destroy  the  effect  of  her 
position.  "  Indeed,  you  are  too  bad,  I  have  quite 
thrilled  myself  with  Tennyson  waiting  for  you." 

"  I  have  but  just  got  your  summons,  Miss  Halstead," 
said  Savage. 

"  Indeed !  but  there  are  moments  in  life  when  mo 
ments  seem  like  ages." 

"  Oh  !  don't  talk  of  ages,  Miss  Halstead,  it  makes  one 
feel  so  old !" 


182         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Miss  Eliza  waved  her  head  with  a  gentle  smile,  and 
looked  upward,  which  assured  her  that  the  cupid  was 
softly  vibrating  above  her. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Savage !  there  ever  will  exist  persons  who 
cannot  grow  old  !" 

Savage  bowed,  and  answered  that  it  needed  no  words 
to  convince  him  that  she  spoke  truly.  The  y'oung  man 
laid  his  hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair  as  he  spoke ;  but 
removing  her  foot  from  the  ottoman,  she  motioned  him 
to  sit  there. 

"  Forgive  me,  I  dare  not  presume,"  he  said.  "  Once 
at  your  feet,  I  might  never  be  able  to  leave  them." 

Miss  Eliza  looked  down  modestly,  and  a  sigh  dis 
turbed  the  geranium  leaves  on  her  bosom. 

"You  sent  for  me,  Miss  Halstead?"  said  Savage,  a 
little  embarrassed  by  these  gentle  demonstrations. 

"  Sent  for  you  ?  Oh,  yes !  But  let  us  waive  the 
subject  a  little  longer ;  it  will  be  soon  enough  for  the 
serpent  to  creep  into  our  paradise  when  it  cannot  be 
kept  out."  She  glanced  upward,  and  Savage,  following 
her  eyes,  saw  the  god  of  love  hovering  over  them.  Spite 
of  himself  a  smile  broke  all  over  his  face. 

Miss  Eliza  had  reached  a  phase  in  her  programme 
which  required  a  drooping  of  the  eye-lashes,  and  she 
lost  the  smile  while  performing  her  part. 

"  We  were  speaking  of  age,"  she  said,  dreamily  ;  "  not 
that  it  is  a  subject  which  can,  as  yet,  interest  either  of 
us ;  but  I  sometimes  think  that  the  lightness  of  selfish 
enjoyment  and  surface  life  of  mere  youth  is  more  unen 
durable  than  age  itself.  There  is  my  niece  down  stairs 
now " 

"  What !  Georgie  ?     She  is  the  very  embodiment  of 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    OUPIIAN.S.         183 

all  that  is  sweet  and  lovable  in  youth.  You  cannot  say 
more  in  her  praise  than  I  will  indorse  heart  and  soul," 
cried  Savage,  whose  heart  was  brimful  of  gratitude  for 
the  young  creature  who,  all  unknown  to  him,  was  weep 
ing  so  bitterly  in  the  room  below.  "  If  you  wish  to  de 
picture  all  the  grace  and  bloom  of  youth  in  its  perfec 
tion,  a  lovelier  object  could  not  be  found." 

Miss  Eliza  moved  restlessly  in  her  chair,  clasped  her 
hand  fiercely  in  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  choked  back 
the  venom  that  burned  for  utterance  with  the  resolution 
of  a  martyr. 

"  You — you  think  so  ?  Well,  yes  ;  the  same  roof  shel 
ters  us,  and  magnanimity  is  always  a  virtue.  Georgiana 
is,  as  you  say,  very  lovely ;  and  no  one  can  dispute  that 
she  is  young — verdantly  so,  I  fear.  Why,  Mr.  Savage, 
you  would  hardly  believe  it,  but  she — in  her  innocence, 
I  will  not  say  obstinacy — is  always  doing  the  most  ex 
traordinary  things.  Why,  this  very  day  she  has  been  in 
one  of  the  most  extraordinary  neighborhoods,  absolutely 
disreputable,  and  visiting  a  house — really,  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  low  her  associates  sometimes  are.  I  ex 
postulated  with  her,  reasoned  with  her ;  but  it  was  of  no 
earthly  use  ;  go  she  would,  and  go  she  did." 

"  But  where  did  she  go  ?     I  do  not  understand." 

"  You  remember  that  night  when  you  first  knelt  at 
my  feet  before  an  admiring  multitude.  Oh!  shall  I  ever 
forget  itj  There  was  a  young  person  admitted  into 
social  communication  with  the  choice  few,  by  what  in 
fluence  we  will  not  now  wait  to  question,  who  was  abso 
lutely  raked  up  from  the  very  dregs  of  society — a  poor 
sewing-girl.  Worse  than  that,  a  creature  brought  up 


184         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

in  one  of  those  loathsome  dens  called  tenement-houses ; 
a  low  bred " 

"Madam — Miss  Halstead!"  cried  Savage,  while  his 
face  wore  one  flush  of  indignation. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  are  astonished,"  persisted 
Miss  Eliza.  "  It  was  an  insult ;  no  amount  of  pretti- 
ness  could  excuse  it — not  that  I  think  the  creature 
pretty,  far  from  it.  Well,  this  girl,  after  standing  up  in 
one  of  the  most  vulgar,  poverty-stricken  pictures  you 
ever  saw,  in  her  real  dress,  and  character,  too,  flaunted 
herself  in  velvet,  and  gold,  and  jewels,  as  Rebecca,  in  a 
gorgeous  tableau,  with  young  Gould  as  the  Templar. 
This  was  directly  after  our  exquisite  representation, 
and,  I  dare  say,  intended  to  rival  it.  Well,  somehow, 
Georgiana,  who  is  always  doing  childish  things,  got  ac 
quainted  with  the  girl  then  and  there,  behind  the 
scenes,  I  believe,  where  the  artful  thing  had  pretended 
to  faint." 

"Oh!  Miss  Halstead,  this  is  too  much!"  exclaimed 
Savage,  starting  up  with  anger  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  thought  that  you  would  feel  this  keenly,  knowing 
how  nearly  Georgiana,  foolish  child,  is  related  to  my 
self,"  resumed  Miss  Eliza,  with  great  self-complacency. 
"And  this  generous  indignation  touches  me  to  the 
heart.  Oh  !  it  is  so  sweet  to  be  thoroughly  appreciated. 
But  this  is  not  all ;  Georgiana  was  full  of  this  girl's 
praises,  pitied  her,  raved  about  her  beauty— beauty, 
indeed  !  but  that  was  to  annoy  me — the  silliness  of  youth 
is  often  very  malicious  ;  and  at  last  went  off  to  the  hor 
rid  place  where  this  creature  lives,  in  defiance  of  my 
wishes,  in  absolute  scorn  of  my  opinion.  This  very  day 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        185 

she  visited  this  disreputable  creature  in  her  garret,  as 
if  she  had  been  an  equal." 

"Disreputable!"  repeated  Savage,  starting  up,  pale 
with  suppressed  wrath.  "  Miss  Halstead,  I  cannot  listen 
to  this.  I,  too,  have  visited  the  young  lady  you  con 
demn  so  bitterly." 

"Young  lady,  Mr.  Savage!  and  to  me!"  faltered 
Miss  Eliza,  with  a  flame  of  natural  color  overpowering 
the  permanent  roses  of  her  cheek.  "  Great  heavens ! 
to  me !" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Halstead,  I  said  lady ;  and  that  Miss 
Anna  Burns  certainly  is,  if  one  ever  lived." 

Miss  Eliza  grew  livid  about  her  mouth  and  forehead  ; 
even  her  hands  turned  coldly  white. 

"A  lady,  and  live  in  that  house !"  she  said,  with  a 
snarling  laugh. 

"  Yes,  madam  ;  even  there." 

"Madam!  You  call  me  madam — you!"  cried  the 
spinster,  burying  her  face  between  both  hands.  "Has 
it  come  to  this,  and  for  her  sake  ?" 

"  Poverty,  undeserved  povert}7,  does  not  change  a  re 
fined  nature.  That  girl,  madam,  is  good,  gentle,  intel 
ligent.  Her  presenee  would  make  any  place  beautiful." 

"Oh!  oh!  my  heart,  my  heart!"  cried  Miss  Eliza, 
pressing  both  hands  to  her  side,  and  rocking  to  and  fro 
in  her  chair.  "  These  words  pierce  me  like  a  poisoned 
arrow !" 

"  Forgive  me ;  I  do  not  wish  to  be  harsh ;  but  this 
young  girl  is  so  unprotected." 

"  Forgive  you  !  Alas  !  this  poor  heart  has  no  choice," 
cried  the  lady,  reaching  out  her  arms  with  touching  im- 


ORPHANS. 

pulsiveness.  "  Its  fibres  are  too  delicate ;  the  touch  of 
woe  wounds  it.  With  me,  forgiveness  is  a  sweet  duty." 

A  smile  quivered  over  the  young  man's  lip,  spite  of 
anger;  at  which  Miss  Eliza  drew  in  her  arms,  and 
clasped  her  hands,  with  a  deep,  deep  sigh. 

"  Oh !  how  grieved  you  will  be  when  the  whole  is  told 
you,"  she  said,  seating  herself  on  the  chair  he  had  re 
signed,  and  clasping  her  fingers  over  the  hand  which 
still  rested  on  its  back.  "  You  have  been  in  that  house? 
Horrible  desecration !  I  shudder  to  think  of  it.  How 
you  have  wronged  me.  It  was  not  this  creature's  pov 
erty  that  shocked  me  so,  but  her  depravity." 

"  Depravity !" 

"  Her  artfulness !  her  duplicity !  Do  not  look  at  me 
so  sternly.  I,  too,  have  been  in  that  tenement-house." 

"You,  Miss  Eliza?" 

"  Yes,  even  that  I  have  endured,  in  hopes  of  saving 
our  Georgiana  from  a  dangerous  acquaintance.  I  have 
seen  the  woman  who  keeps  the  house — a  coarse,  vicious 
creature,  buried  to  her  knees  in  slop-work,  who  eyed  me 
like  a  terrier  when  I  went  in,  and  would  hardly  stop 
working  while  I  inquired  about  the  people  up-stairs. 
A  weak  person  might  have  been  driven  away  by  this 
rudeness  ;  but  I  had  a  duty  to  perform,  and  that  thought 
gave  me  courage.  I  took  out  my  porte-monnaie  and 
laid  some  money  in  her  lap  ;  then  she  told  me  all — all  1" 

Savage,  spite  of  himself,  grew  interested ;  for  now 
Eliza  spoke  naturally,  and  seemed  really  in  earnest; 
her  dull  eyes  lighted  up  with  venomous  fire.  She  was 
eager  as  a  snake  when  it  charms  a  bird  to  destruction. 

"And  what  did  she  tell  you?"  he  said,  ashamed  of 
the  question  as  he  uttered  it. 


ORPHANS.          187 

"  Mr.  Savage,  I  had  seen  this  girl  more  than  once  in 
the  street,  talking  with  gentlemen." 

Savage  blushed  crimson. 

"  With  gentlemen,  Miss  Eliza  ?  I  know  that  you  saw 
her  once  with  me,  coming  from  my  mother's." 

"  Yes,  I  saw  it.  Oh !  God  forgive  you  the  pang  the 
sight  gave  me— but  that  was  not  all.  I  said  gentle 
men." 

"  You  saw  her  with  some  one  else,  then  ?" 

"  I  did,  and  who — a  gamester — a  blackleg — a  hotel- 
lounger — that  Ward,  who  is  so  much 'with  young 
Gould." 

"What I  Ward?  And  you  saw  him  walking  with 
Anna  Burns  ?" 

"  Worse  than  that ;  I  saw  them  standing  together  on 
the  public  pavement,  conversing  earnestly." 

"But  that  might  have  been  innocent  enough." 

"  Yes ;  but  was  it  quite  so  innocent  when  he  followed 
her  home  an  hour  after  ?" 

Savage  laid  his  hand  almost  fiercely  on  the  spinster's 
shoulder. 

"  Woman,  is  this  the  truth  ?" 

"  Do  you  question  it  ?  I  saw  him  with  my  own  eyes 
enter  the  house.  Georgiana's  infatuation  about  the 
girl  made  me  vigilant." 

"  But  this  was  only  once,"  said  the  young  man,  des 
perately.  "  I  cannot  believe  she  encouraged  him  in  this 
impudence." 

"  This  was  the  first  time ;  but  he  went  there  again 
and  again — I  know  it — I  am  sure  of  it ;  the  woman 
told  me  so." 

Savage  clenched  his  teeth  hard,  and,  going  up  to  the 


188         THE    SOLDIER'S    o  R  p  n  A  N  s . 

gardiniere,  tore  a  branch  from  the  geranium  and  flung 
it  angrily  from  him. 

"  It  is  impossible — I  will  not  believe  it,"  he  said,  with 
passionate  violence.  "  There  is  some  combination 
against  her." 

"  What  combination  could  have  induced  this  gambler, 
Ward,  to  hire  a  room  and  become  an  inmate  in  this 
squalid  house  ?" 

"And  is  this  so  ?" 

"  The  woman  herself  showed  me  his  chamber — a  mis 
erable,  shabby  room,  for  which  he  had  paid  the  rent  in 
advance,  she  stated." 

"  Great  heavens  !  this  is  terrible  !  Woman,  woman,  I 
charge  }TOU,  tell  me  the  truth  !  Is  there  no  mistake  in 
this  ?"  His  lips  quivered,  his  eyes  were  bright  with 
pain. 

"  Go  to  the  woman  yourself  if  you  doubt  me,"  was 
the  answer.  "  Then  say  if  I  am  not  right  in  forbidding 
our  Georgian  a  ever  to  enter  that  place  again.  She  may 
be  obstinate  enough  to  insist ;  but  I  shall  have  done  my 
duty." 

Miss  Eliza  folded  her  hands  over  each  other,  and 
rubbed  them  gently  as  she  spoke.  Savage  looked  at 
her  with  no  pleasant  expression  in  his  eyes.  Up  to  this 
time  she  had  amused  him  by  her  ridiculous  affectation  ; 
but  now  he  began  to  hate  her,  for  he  saw  under  all  her 
extravagance  a  vein  of  bitter  malice,  subtle  as  the 
venom  of  a  serpent.  He  could  not  altogether  disbelieve 
her,  but  detested  her  the  more  for  that.  We  never 
love,  and  seldom  forgive,  those  who  destroy  our  illu 
sions. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        189 

Miss  Eliza  took  the  half-open  rose  from  her  bosom, 
blew  a  kiss  into  its  leaves,  and  gave  it  to  him. 

"We  have  wasted  some  precious  minutes  on  this 
worthless  girl,"  she  said,  "let  this  compensate  for  the 
annoyance." 

Savage  took  the  rose  and  crushed  it  ruthlessly  in  his 
hand. 

"As  I  could  crush  her  I"  he  muttered,  turning  away 
and  leaving  the  room  before  Eliza  had  time  to  stop  him. 
She  started  up  and  ran  to  the  door,  calling  out,  "Mr. 
Savage  !     Mr.  Savage  !" 

He  heard  her,  and  muttered  something  between  his 
teeth,  which  was  neither  a  compliment  nor  a  blessing. 
That  moment  he  was  opposite  the  door  of  Georgiana's 
room. 

"  I  ought  to  go  in  and  release  her  from  that  kind 
promise  ;  but  not  yet— not  yet.  I  have  not  the  courage 
to  tell  her  yet.  Besides,  it  may  be  false — it  may  be 
false  !  Georgiana,  herself,  did  not  seem  more  innocent 

than   she  was  ;  and  the   old   woman,  too was   all  her 

sweetness  put  on  ?     I  have  heard  of  such  things seen 

them,  too.  The  meekest  looking  woman  I  ever  saw  had 
murdered  two  husbands,  and  was  caught  looking  out 
for  a  third.  If  mother  Burns  is  one  of  that  sort,  no 
wonder  her  grandchild  is  mistress  of  her  art.  But  it 
is  not  true — I  cannot  believe  it.  So  sweet,  so  gentle, 


so- 


With-a  gesture  of  passionate  grief  Savage  turned 
from  the  door  of  Georgie's  room,  which  he  had  almost 
opened,  and  hurried  down-stairs.  Miserable,  jealous, 
and  burning  with  fierce  indignation,  he  followed  a  pas- 
sionate  instinct,  and  went  directly  into  the  neighbor- 


190        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

hood  where  Anna  Burns  lived.  He  had  formed  no 
positive  design,  but  went  blindly  to  work,  fearing  that 
every  step  he  took  would  tear  that  dear  image  from  his 
heart,  yet  eager  to  seize  upon  the  bitter  truth.  Follow 
ing  the  scent  of  fried  ham,  which  came  to  him  on  the 
stairs,  he  knocked  at  an  ill-fitting  door,  through  which 
a  hissing  sound  bespoke  the  fair  progress  of  some  meal, 
and  was  told  by  a  loud  voice  to  come  in. 

It  was  the  room  which  we  have  once  described,  and 
the  same  coarse,  repulsive  woman  presided  in  it.  But 
this  time  she  was  busy  over  a  cooking-stove,  turning 
some  slices  of  ham  in  a  short-handled  frying-pan,  where 
they  hissed  and  sent  off  steam,  as  if  she  were  torturing 
them  with  her  knife.  A  basket,  crowded  full  of  slop 
work,  stood  in  one  corner  of  the  room,  and  a  little  side- 
thimble  lay  upon  the  narrow  window-sill,  close  by  a 
cushion  of  scarlet  cloth,  bristling  all  over  with  coarse 
needles  and  crooked  pins. 

When  Savage  entered  the  room,  the  woman  turned 
her  face,  which  flamed  out,  hot  and  red,  from  its  cloud 
of  steam,  and  stood,  with  her  knife  half  suspended, 
waiting  for  him  to  speak. 

"Madam,  are  you  the  mistress  of  this  house?"  he 
said,  lifting  the  hat  from  his  head. 

"  I  believe  they  generally  call  me  so,"  she  answered, 
bending  the  point  of  her  knife  against  the  stove.  "  Wont 
you  walk  in  and  help  yourself  to  a  chair  ?" 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  come  to  inquire  for  a  gentleman 
who  has  a  room  here,  I  think — Mr.  Ward." 

"  Oh !  that's  it,  is  it  ?"  exclaimed  the  woman.  "  Didn't 
know  but  it  might  be  another  big-bug  struck  with  a 
liking  for  the  house.  Suppose  it  must  be  because  they've 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS.        191 

took  sich  a  fancy  to  me  all  at  once.     Anna  Burns  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.     Oh,  no  !" 

Here  the  woman  thrust  her  knife  under  a  slice  of 
ham  and  turned  it  over  with  emphasis,  laughing  a  low, 
disagreeable  laugh,  and  shaking  her  head,  as  if  greatly 
enjoying  her  own  words. 

"  You  want  to  see  Mr.  Ward  ?"  she  said  at  last,  coin 
ing  out  of  her  laugh.  "  Jest  mount  the  next  stairs, 
and  you'll  find  his  room  on  the  left,  right  under  their'n. 
I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  ain't  at  home,  though.  Never 
had  a  more  uncertain  person  under  this  roof.  But  then 
I  never  had  a  genuine  big-hug  afore.  Wait  a  minute, 
and  I'll  show  you  the  way." 

"  No,  thank  you,  I  can  find  it,"  answered  Savage,  turn 
ing  away  white  and  faint.  Until  that  moment  he  had 
hoped  that  something  might  arise  to  refute  Miss  Eliza's 
slander — but  bitter  confirmation  met  him  at  every  step. 
He  made  no  effort  to  see  Ward  ;  indeed,  had  no  inten 
tion  of  meeting  him  from  the  first.  His  name  had  only 
been  used  as  an  excuse  for  questioning  that  fiery-faced 
woman,  who  was  cross  and  coarse,  but  not  bad  at  heart. 

"  If  you  want  a  room,  or  any  thing  of  that  sort,  I 
may  as  well  out  with  it,  and  say  that  it  can't  be  had," 
cried  that  female,  standing  up  resolutely  with  the  knife 
in  her  hand.  "It  don't  set  easy  on  my  conscience  let 
ting  in  that  other  chap.  There's  something  mean  and 
underhanded  about  his  coming  here,  or  I  don't  know 
good  from  bad.  The  fact  is,  I  offered  him  his  money 
back,  and  would  a  put  up  with  the  loss  ;  but  he  said  he 
had  got  friends  in  the  house,  and  couldn't  think  of  it. 
This  riled  me  more  than  any  thing,  for  I  had  a  liking 
for  that  old  woman  and  the  girl,  to  say  nothing  of  the 


192        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

little  boys,  that  are  worth  their  weight  in  gold,  going 
up  and  down  stairs  chattering  and  laughing  so  bright ; 
and  I  told  him  it  was  a  shame  to  come  here  just  to  un 
settle  a  poor  young  cretur's  head  that  had  got  trouble 
enough  already.  At  which  he  laughed  and  hitched  up 
his  shoulders,  and  woke  up  my  temper  till  I  could  a 
boxed  his  ears,  and  gloried  over  it  like  sixty,  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  law,  which  makes  sich  things  salt 
and  battery,  and  six  months  in  the  penitentiary ;  which 
I  shouldn't  like,  being  respectable,  and  working  for  one 
of  the  best  clothing  houses  in  the  cit}T,  besides  hiring 
this  house  on  speculation  ;  and  a  purty  speculation  it's 
been,  one  month  in  advance,  and  then  three  dunning  for 
— and  obliged  to  turn  'em  out  at  last ;  except  that 
family  in  the  top,  I  never  dunned  them,  poor  creturs ! 
and  wouldn't  anyhow,  knowing  that  they  would  starve 
rather  than  not  pay,  if  they  had  it.  Poor  girl  1  Poor 
girl  !  I  feel  as  if  I'd  helped  to  hunt  her  down,  some 
how,  and  it  sets  hard  here." 

The  woman  placed  her  hand,  knife  and  all,  against 
her  right  side,  solemnly  impressed  with  an  idea  that 
her  heart  lay  in  that  direction  ;  and  a  heavy  sigh  was 
lost  in  the  hissing  which  rose  from  the  frying-pan. 

"  No,  no !  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  tenants  that 
come  here  with  kid  gloves  and  coral  studs  in  their 
bosom.  It  isn't  for  me,  a  hard-working  woman,  to  put 
temptation  in  the  way  of  my  own  sect.  So,  if  you'd  just 
as  lieve,  I'd  rather  you  wouldn't  come  here  no  more. 
I've  seen  you  more  an  once  going  up  to  the  top  of  the 
house,  and  it  kinder  made  the  heart  ache  in  my  bnsoni." 

Savage  listened  to  all  this  with  an  aching  heart  and 
changing  countenance.  The  coarse,  hard  honesty  of 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         193 

the  woman  enforced  his  respect ;  and  ho  stood  with  his 
hat  off  gazing  upon  her  with  strange  interest. 

"  It  is  not  likely  that  I  ever  shall  come  again,"  he 
said,  with  a  pang  at  his  heart,  la3Ting  his  hand  on  the 
door-knob. 

fit  was  that  live-folks  picture  that  did  it,"  said  the 
woman;  "afore  that  time  no  living  creature  ever  went 
to  see  them.  Now  it  is  ladies  in  their  flounces  and  with 
lace  parasols  ;  and  gentlemen  in  broadcloth,  cutting  up 
and  down  all  the  time.  I  wish  they'd  a  let  the  poor 
soul  alone." 

"And  so  do  I,"  answered  Savage,  with  deep  feeling. 
"  It  was  kindly  meant.  But  I  will  bid  you  good-day, 
madam.  If  I  should  ever  come  here  again,  pray  believe 
that  it  is  with  no  unworthy  motive.  I  cannot  permit 
you  to  think  otherwise  in  common  self-respect." 

"  Well,  then,  don't  come  again,  and  I'll  believe  you. 
In  fact,  I  do  now.  There's  a  difference  between  gentle 
men  and  gentlemen.  I  only  wish  the  other  chap  had  a 
face  that  could  turn  red  and  white  like  yours.  The  long 
and  the  short  of  it  is,  I  wish  he  was  straight  out  of  my 
house ;  that  poor  child  don't  seem  like  the  same  cretur 
since  he  came  here." 

Savage  did  not  stay  to  ask  in  what  this  change  con 
sisted,  the  subject  had  become  altogether  too  painful ; 
so,  with  a  bend  of  his  head,  he  went  out.  One  moment 
he  paused  upon  the  staircase;  his  heart  turned  with 
passionate  longing  toward  that  lonely  upper  room. 
Even  in  her  unworthiness,  he  yearned  to  look  upon 
Anna's  face  once  more ;  to  hear  her  sweet  voice  pro 
claim  the  innocence  he  never  could  believe  in  again. 
But  he  thought  of  Ward,  the  gambler  and  convenient 
12 


194         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

toady,  whom  so  many  men  used  in  his  scoundrelism, 
and  despised,  as  they  used  him,  with  a  sensation  of 
such  intense  loathing,  that  it  turned  his  very  compas 
sion  away  from  the  young  creature  he  had  loved  with 
such  self-sacrificing  truth. 

"  Had  it  been  any  one  else,"  he  muttered  through  his 
shut  teeth,  "I  could  have  borne  it  better;  but  this 
paltry  wretch,  this  miserable  hound  !  Great  heavens  ! 
and  she,  so  gentle,  so  exquisitely  pure !  It  is  beyond 
belief.  Never  till  now  did  I  believe  in  the  utter  duplicity 
of  the  sex.  Poor  girl !  Poor,  wrecked  girl !  Could 
she  have  known  how  I  loved  her?" 

With  these  thoughts,  which  broke  in  half-formed 
words  against  his  shut  teeth,  the  young  man  went  down 
stairs,  and  into  the  poverty-stricken  neighborhood  be 
yond,  feeling,  for  the  first  time,  in  all  its  force,  how 
squalid  and  offensive  it  was.  Scarcely  had  his  foot 
touched  the  pavement,  when  he  saw  Anna  Burns  coming 
down  the  sidewalk  with  a  small  parcel  in  her  hand.  Her 
face  lighted  up  as  she  saw  him,  her  cheeks  dimpled,  and 
a  warm  love-glow  came  into  her  eyes.  Savage  stood 
motionless,  looking  at  her  with  his  stern  eyes  on  fire, 
and  his  lips  set. 

She  did  not  see  the  expression  of  his  face,  for,  after 
the  first  glad  recognition,  her  eyelids  had  drooped  in 
shame  at  her  own  eager  joy,  and  she  came  up  to  him 
shrinking  and  covered  with  blushes — came  up  and  held 
out  her  hand ;  for  was  he  not  her  declared  lover,  this 
brave,  handsome  young  fellow,  whom  any  lady  of  the 
land  would  have  gloried  in. 

Savage  did  not  touch  that  eager  little  hand,  but  lifting 
his  hat  with  haughty  coldness,  walked  on,  leaving  her 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        195 

chilled  with  dismay.  She  turned  and  looked  after  him 
with  a  cry  of  surprised  pain,  scarcely  kept  back  from 
the  parted  lips  which  closed  slowly,  and  seemed  freezing 
into  marble  as  his  stern,  unyielding  footsteps  bore  him 
further  and  further  away.  Then,  just  as  he  was  turning 
a  corner,  the  cry  broke  from  her,  "  Oh,  come  back ! 
Come  back!"  and  turning  wildly,  she  ran  a  few  steps 
after  him,  till  she  was  checked  on  the  pavement,  her 
face  so  wildly  pale,  coming  suddenly  opposite  that  of 
young  Ward,  who  seized  one  of  her  hands,  and  asked 
what  it  was  that  had  frightened  her  so. 

That  moment  Savage  turned  the  corner  and  looked 
back. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

A    HARD-HEARTED    VILLAIN. 

WARD  attempted  to  draw  Anna's  hand  through  his 
own,  but  she  resisted  him,  and  at  last  tore  it  away  in 
passionate  anger. 

"  Mr.  Ward,"  she  said,  "  this  is  unkind — it  is  rude. 
You  have  no  right  to  take  such  liberties  with  me." 

There  was  fire  enough  in  those  eyes,  then,  and  a 
world  of  scorn  on  the  lovely  mouth.  She  turned  one 
look  in  the  direction  which  Savage  had  taken,  saw  that 
he  was  gone,  and  turned  fiercely  upon  Ward  again. 

"  You  are  wicked — you  are  cruel !"  she  said.  "  Know 
ing  how  helpless  I  am,  you  persecute  me  horribly !" 

"I  persecute  you,  sweet  one — the  idea  !  Is  it  in  this 
way  you  mistake  my  adoration  ?" 


196         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Anna's  red  lips  curved  with  scorn  ;  her  eyes  flashed , 
her  whole  form  trembled. 

"  Great  heavens  1"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  never  knew  what 
a  terrible  thing  poverty  was  before.  But  for  that  you 
could  not  have  forced  yourself  under  the  same  roof 
with  a  poor,  helpless  girl;  but  for  that  you  dare  not 
have  spoken  to  me." 

"  Do  not  accuse  poverty  for  the  acts  which  spring  out 
of  love,  sweet  one." 

Anna  heard  no  more ;  but  gathering  her  shawl  about 
her  with  the  haughty  grace  of  an  empress,  she  turned 
away  from  him  and  walked  quickly  into  the  house.  The 
young  gambler  followed  her,  laughing ;  the  excitement 
of  her  anger  charmed  him.  Quickly  as  he  walked, 
Anna  had  mounted  the  third  flight  of  stairs  before  he 
entered  the  passage.  He  just  caught  a  glimpse  of  her 
dress  on  the  upper  landing,  and  that  was  all.  But  he 
went  up-stairs,  smiling  to  himself  and  humming  a  tune, 
conscious  of  his  power  to  see  her  almost  when  he 
pleased. 

Old  Mrs.  Burns  was  busy  darning  the  only  table 
cloth  in  that  poor  establishment,  when  Anna  came  in, 
all  on  fire  with  wounded  affection  and  outraged  pride. 

"Grandmother,"  she  said,  "we  must  move;  this 
house  is  no  place  for  us.  Let  us  go  to-night — this 
hour !" 

The  old  lady  was  holding  up  the  tablecloth  between 
her  eyes  and  the  light,  searching  for  more  broken 
threads.  She  dropped  it  suddenly  as  her  granddaugh 
ter  spoke,  and  gazed  at  her  a  moment  in  anxious  wonder. 

"  What  is  it,  Anna  ?     Who  has  troubled  you,  dear  ?" 

"  That  young  man  in  the  room  below.     I  haven't  told 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         197 

you  of  it  before,  grandmother,  but  he  is  always  in  my 
way.  I  cannot  go  up  or  down-stairs  that  he  does  not 
say  things  to  me  which  seem  insulting,  situated  as  we 
are." 

"My  poor  child!  poor,  dear,  little  Anna!"  said  the 
old  lady,  going  up  to  the  excited  girl  and  smoothing 
the  rich  waves  of  her  hair  as  if  she  had  been  a  child. 
"  Perhaps  the  young  man  means  no  harm.  What  sort 
of  a  person  is  he  ?" 

"A  dandy ;  a  pitiful " 

Here  Anna's  anger  flowed  out,  and  she  burst  into 
tears. 

"  There,  there  !  Don't  cry  so,  child  !  What  did  the 
young  man  say  to  you  ?" 

"  Say — say  ?  I  don't  remember,  grandma.  Nothing, 
I  think ;  only  he  held  my  hand  so  close,  and  he  saw 
it Oh !  it  is  too  bad — it  is  too  bad  I" 

"  Be  tranquil,  Anna.  I  cannot  think  wrhat  has  come 
over  you.  Why,  your  eyes  are  full  of  smothered  shame ; 
your  lips  tremble,  you  are  giving  way  altogether.  Sit 
down  quietly,  and  tell  me  what  it  is  all  about." 

"  I  will,  grandmother.  I  know  it  is  a  shame  to  take 
on  so,  but  that  man  is  enough  to  drive  one  mad.  What 
is  he  doing  in  this  house  ?  Robert  says  that  he  is  a 
gentleman,  and  a  great  friend  of  young  Mr.  Gould's. 
He  can  have  no  honest  business  here." 

The  old  lady  sat  down  in  her  rocking-chair,  and  sat 
thoughtfully  gazing  in  Anna's  face.  She  was  a  timid 
woman,  and  poverty  had  fastened  its  depressing  influ 
ence  on  all  her  faculties.  But  there  was  moral  force 
asleep  in  her  nature  yet ;  the  color  came  and  went  in 


198        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

her  old  cheek ;  her  soft,  brown  eyes  grew  resolute  in 
their  expression. 

"  There  is  no  one  to  protect  us — no  one  to  say  a  word 
in  our  behalf,"  said  Anna,  with  a  fresh  outburst  of  tears. 
"  Robert;  is  too  young.  Oh !  what  can  we  do — what  can 
we  do  ?" 

The  old  lady  arose  from  her  chair,  and  going  up  to  a 
tiny  looking-glass  which  hung  on  the  wall,  smoothed 
the  gray  hair  under  her  cap  with  two  little  withered 
hands  that  shook  like  aspen-leaves.  Then,  with  a  look 
of  gentle  resolution  on  her  face,  she  softly  opened  the 
door  and  went  down-stairs. 

Young  Ward  was  lying  upon  his  bed  with  a  segar  in 
his  mouth.  He  lay  prone  on  his  back,  and  sent  up 
clouds  of  smoke  with  a  vehemence  which  seemed  to 
have  filled  his  moustache  and  hair  with  smouldering  fire. 
He  turned  lazily  as  the  old  lady  knocked,  and  emitting 
a  fresh  volume  of  smoke,  called  out, 

"  Come  in !     Why  the  deuce  don't  you  come  in  ?" 

Mrs.  Burns  came  gently  through  the  door,  and  stood 
a  pace  inside  the  threshold  gazing  at  him.  Ward  started 
up,  flung  his  feet  over  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  looked 
his  astonishment  at  this  intrusion. 

"  How  do  you  do,  ma'am  ?  Glad  to  see  you.  Take  a 
seat.  This  seems  neighborly.  Excuse  my  dressing- 
gown  ;  free-and-easy  in  my  room  here.  Did  not  expect 
the  honor  of  a  lady's  company,  but  glad  to  have  it.  Sit 
down." 

Mrs.  Burns  took  a  chair  near  the  bed,  and,  folding 
both  hands  in  her  lap,  turned  her  eyes  full  upon  the 
flushed  face  turned  upon  her. 

"  Mr.  Ward— I  believe  that  is  your  name  ?" 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.       199 

"Certainly.  Nothing  could  be  more  correct,"  an 
swered  Ward,  thrusting  his  foot  into  an  embroidered 
slipper  trodden  down  at  the  heel,  which  had  dropped 
to  the  floor  ;  "  delighted  that  you  remember  it." 

"Mr.  Ward,  we  are  two  helpless  creatures  — my 
grandchild  and  myself;  one  from  age,  the  other  because 
of  her  youth.  A  more  helpless  family,  in  fact,  does  not 
exist.  We  have  nothing  in  the  wide  world  but  our  good 
name,  and  the  work  of  our  hands  to  live  on.  "Unhap 
pily  !  most  unhappily !  my  granddaughter,  Anna,  is  so 
pretty  that  men  turn  to  look  at  her  in  the  street ;  and 
even  ladies  think  much  of  her  on  that  account." 

"  They  are  deuced  jealous  of  her,  I  can  tell  you  that," 
burst  forth  young  Ward,  puffing  away  at  his  segar, 
which  was  half  extinguished.  "And  no  wonder  ;  she 
cuts  into  them  all  hollow.  Of  course,  men  turn  to  look 
at  her  in  the  street ;  they  don't  see  a  figure  and  face  like 
that  often,  I  can  tell  you.  Then  her  instep,  one  sees  it 
now  and  then  coming  up-stairs,  you  know,  when  her 
dress  is  looped  up— and  it's  Spanish,  absolutely 
Spanish,  I  can  tell  you.  My  dear  madam,  you  have  got 
a  treasure  of  beauty  in  that  girl — yon  have,  indeed  ;  I 
give  you  my  honor  upon  it." 

"  I  have  come,"  said  the  old  lady,  ignoring  this 
speech,  though  a  flush  of  red  came  across  her  withered 
cheek,  and  the  hands  moved  restlessly  in  her  lap,  "  I 
have  come  to  tell  you  how  unprotected  we  are,  and  how 
hard  it  is  for  us  to  get  a  living.  I  have  come  to  ask  a 
great  favor  of  you." 

"  What !  want  money  ?  All  right.  I  thought  it  would 
come  to  that!  How  much?  I'll  stand  a  pretty  heavy 
pull ;  hang  me,  if  I  wont. 


200         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Ward  flouted  bis  slipper  on  the  floor,  and,  drawing  a 
porte-momiaie  from  one  of  his  pockets,  took  out  a 
roll  of  treasury-notes. 

This  time  the  color  in  the  old  woman's  face  burned 
into  scarlet. 

"  I  did  not  mean  that,  young  man — I  did  not  mean 
that.  The  favor  I  want  is  more  important  to  us  than 
all  the  money  you  possess." 

Ward  put  the  roll  of  bills  slowly  back  into  his  porte- 
monnaie,  and  closed  it  with  a  loud  snap. 

"Not  want  money?  Then  in  the  name  of  Jupiter! 
what  is  it  you  are  after?" 

"I  wish  you  to  give  up  this  room  and  leave  the 
house.  This  is  no  place  for  a  rich  man  like  you.  It  is 
injuring  us  cruelly— my  granddaughter  most  of  all." 
Ward  fell  back  upon  the  bed  and  laughed  aloud. 
"  This  is  splendid  !"  he  cried.  "  Give  up  my  room  ! 
Why,  you  precious  old  thing,  I  like  the  room— it's  a 
capital  place  to  hide  away  in.  Besides,  I  am  one  of  the 
fellows  who  think  your  granddaughter  handsome.  No 
harm  in  that,  I  hope.  Like  to  see  her  going  up  and 
down  stairs ;  steps  like  a  fairy  ;  lifts  her  head  like  a 
princess.  Smoke  at  ease  here  ;  admire  beauty  at  my 
leisure.  Why  should  you  wish  to  break  up  these  little 
innocent  enjoyments  ?  It  is  inhuman— I  would  not 
have  thought  it  of  you." 

"  Your  presence  under  the  same  roof  with  my  girl  Is 
sure  to  injure  her.  People  will  not  know  that  we  cannot 
prevent  it." 

"But  I  know  it.  I,  at  least,  do  ample  justice  to  the 
subject.  You  can  no  more  force  me  to  leave  this  plea 
sant  room  than  you  can  change  the  moon." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        201 

11 1  do  not  hope  to  force  your  absence,  but  come  in  all 
kindness  to  say  how  much  your  stay  here  is  injuring  us. 
1  come  to  entreat,  implore  you  not  to  force  us  away 
from  the  only  shelter  we  have.  Here  the  woman  of 
the  house  is  kind  to  us,  and  that  makes  it  seem  like 
home.  My  son  died  fighting  for  his  country — perhaps 
you  did  not  know  that.  When  he  was  with  us  we  were 
very  comfortable,  and  so  happy.  Now,  the  children 
have  no  one  but  me  ;  and  I  am  only  a  weak  old  woman ; 
but  my  child's  good  name  must  not  be  lost.  We  were 
getting  a  little  comfortable,  just  now ;  but  if  you  will 
stay,  we  must  go." 

"  Go  1"  exclaimed  Ward,  in  sudden  excitement.  "  You 
really  don't  mean  that,  old  lady  ?" 

"  It  is  hard.  I  am  an  old  woman,  and  age  shrinks 
from  change.  We  had  got  used  to  the  rooms  ;  but  if  we 
must  go,  we  must !  Heaven  help  us  !" 

Mrs.  Burns  arose  as  she  spoke,  and  stood  with  one 
hand  on  the  chair,  looking  sadty  on  the  floor.  At  last 
she  lifted  her  brown  eyes  mournfully  to  his,  and  turned 
away.  Poor  thing !  She  did  not  know  how  to  struggle, 
but  she  was  patient  to  endure. 

I  think  the  young  man  was  a  little  disturbed  by  the 
expression  of  those  eyes,  for  the  fire  went  out  from  his 
segar,  and  he  flung  it  away  half  consumed,  muttering 
something  between  his  teeth  that  sounded  like  an  ex 
clamation  of  self-loathing. 

"I'll  go  and  see  Gould,"  he  said,  throwing  his  dress 
ing-gown  across  a  chair,  and  thrusting  his  arms  into  a 
coat.  "  No,  I  wont,  either  !  Hang  it  all,  I'm  getting 
too  fond  of  the  girl  myself;  half  tempted  to  marry  her, 
and  get  religion.  That  sweet  old  woman,  now,  would 


202         THE    SOLDIER'S    o  UP  HANS. 

be  like  a  sermon  in  one's  house.  If  one  only  had  a  nice 
little  fortune — income  sure  ?  How  easy  it  is  for  rich 
men  to  be  good.  But  we  fellows  that  live  by  our  wits, 
find  '  Jordan  a  hard  road  to  travel.'  I  wish  that  old  lady 
had  stayed  away.  I  can  stand  the  girl's  haughty  airs,  for 
anger  fires  up  her  beauty  into  something  wonderful ;  but 
that  sweet,  low  voice  ;  those  poor  little  hands,  trembling 
like  birds  in  the  cold ;  and  those  eyes,  take  a  fellow's 
spirit  out  of  his  bosom.  I  think  they  reminded  me  of 
my  own  mother.  Well,  I'll  think  about  going  away, 
poor,  old  woman ;  if  it  was  only  her,  I'd  quit  at  once — I 
would,  indeed !" 

Mrs.  Burns  heard  nothing  of  this ;  she  had  left  the 
room,  and  was  knocking  faintly  at  her  landlady's  door. 

"  Come  in." 

Mrs.  Burns  obeyed  the  summons,  and  entered  the 
room  with  which  our  readers  are  acquainted.  The  land 
lady  sat  on  a  low  chair,  with  her  foot  on  the  round  of 
another  chair,  and  the  seam  of  a  coarse  jacket  pinned 
to  her  knee.  She  looked  up,  holding  her  thread  half 
drawn,  and  pushing  the  chair  on  which  her  foot  rested, 
asked  her  tenant  to  sit  down,  a  little  roughly — for  she 
was  not  quite  satisfied  with  the  aspect  of  things  with 
the  family  up-stairs. 

Mrs.  Burns  sat  down,  and  the  landlady  bent  to  her 
work  again. 

"Any  thing  stirring?"  she  inquired,  pressing  the 
needle  through  a  thick  double-seam  with  the  side  of  her 
steel  thimble.  "A  good  deal  of  going  up  and  down 
stairs  latety — tramp,  tramp  !  nothing  but  tramp  !  Get 
ting  to  have  lots  of  genteel  company  in  your  story  ? 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        203 

Silks  a  rustling,  and  patent-leather  boots  a  cracking  all 
the  day  long.  How's  Anna?" 

"  She  is  not  very  well.  We  are  in  a  little  trouble  just 
now,  and  that's  what  brings  me  here.  I  think  we  shall 
have  to  move." 

"  Move  !  Mrs.  Burns !  Has  it  come  to  that  ?  These 
premises  ain't  genteel  enough  for  you,  I  dare  say.  It's 
all  that  girl's  doings,  I'll  bet.  Expected  it  from  the 
minute  that  young  fellow  came  into  the  house  1  Scamp  !" 

"  That  is  the  reason  we  must  go.  We  haven't  had  a 
happy  minute  since  he  came  here." 

"  Then  you  want  to  get  away  from  him — is  that  it  ?" 
cried  the  landlady,  fixing  her  greenish-gray  eyes  on  the 
sad  face  turned  so  innocently  toward  her. 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  the  only  reason  we  wish  to  go.  Peo 
ple  will  think  something  wrong  of  it  if  a  man  who 
dresses  so  well,  and  spends  so  much  money,  is  seen 
often  with  a  girl  like  my  Anna.  And  he  will  insist  on 
walking  by  her  if  she  goes  out.  She  came  home  crying 
only  a  few  minutes  ago,  because  he  stopped  her  in  the 
street." 

"  Scamp !"  exclaimed  the  landlady,  jerking  her  needle 
out  with  snappish  vigor.  "  Deserves  to  be  kicked  into 
the  middle  of  next  week  !" 

11 1  have  just  been  to  his  room." 

The  landlady  dropped  the  heavy  work  down  into  her 
lap,  overcome  with  astonishment. 

"You?" 

"  I  asked  him  to  go  away ;  told  him  how  much  we 
had  become  attached  to  the  rooms ;  how  hard  it  would 
be  for  us  to  break  up — but  it  did  no  good." 

"  He  wouldn't  go  himself,  and  having  received  two 


204        THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS. 

months'  rent  in  advance,  I  can't  make  him.  There's 
the  worst  of  it,  or  he'd  go  out  neck  and  heels,  quicker 
than  you  ever  saw  a  fellow  go  down  stairs  in  all  your 
born  days,  Mrs.  Burns." 

The  landlady  thrust  her  needle  in  and  out  so  vigor 
ously  as  she  spoke,  that  it  plunged  into  her  thumb  at 
the  termination  of  this  sentence. 

"  Serves  me  right !"  she  said,  thrusting  her  thumb 
into  her  mouth.  "  Serves  me  right,  for  letting  the 
stuck-up  creature  in.  But  I'll  make  the  house  too  hot 
for  him  ;  see  if  I  don't — boil  cabbage  and  fry  onions 
every  day  of  my  life,  with  the  fireboard  up  and  the  door 
open.  Just  as  like  as  not  his  night-key  won't  fit  some 
day  when  he  wants  to  come  in.  Will  have  the  lock 
changed  as  sure  as  I  live.  I've  offered  the  fellow  his 
money  back,  and  he  won't  take  it.  Well,  we'll  see.  But 
you're  not  going  away,  Mrs.  Burns ;  rather  than  that 
I'll  go  in  and  out  with  Anna  myself.  Owe  her  that 
much  for  thinking  she  could  like  the  fellow.  I'd  like  to 
see  him,  or  anybody  else,  speak  to  her  when  I'm  on 
hand.  Standing  down  by  the  door  to  look  at  her  feet 
as  she  goes  up  stairs.  I've  seen  him  do  it.  If  he  wants 
to  look  at  anybody's  feet,  let  him  look  at  mine." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  must  move,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  sadly 
enough.  "  You  have  been  so  kind  to  us,  it  seems  almost 
like  a  funeral  to  go  away." 

"  You  shan't  go  !  That  is  the  long  and  short  of  it. 
Wait  a  little,  and  if  the  cabbage  and  onions  fail,  I'll 
think  of  something  else ;  for  go  he  shall,  and  go  you 
shan't— there  !" 

Mrs.  Burns  arose,  irresolute.  She  loved  the  humble 
rooms  which  had  sheltered  her  deepest  affliction ;  and 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        205 

her  heart  yearned  toward  the  semblance  of  home  they 
gave  her. 

<:  Wait  a  few  days,"  said  the  landlady. 

•'  Yes,  I  will  wait.  You  are  very  good  ;  but  then 
everybody  is  so  good  to  us." 

"  Goodness  breeds  goodness.  I  don't  believe  there  is 
a  creature  on  earth  bad  enough  to  be  hard  with  you, 
Mrs.  Burns.  I  try  to  be  like  you  sometimes,  but  it 
isn't  in  me." 

"  It  is  in  you  to  be  considerate  and  kind  to  those  who 
most  need  kindness,"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Yes,  but  I've  got  such  a  way  of  doing  it— rough  as 
a  chestnut-burr  ;  but  I  don't  mean  any  harm  to  a  living 
creature — quite  the  contrary," 

"You  have  clone  nothing  but  good  to  us,"  said  Mrs. 
Burns,  opening  the  door  in  her  soft,  quiet  way ;  "  and 
God  will  bless  you  for  it." 

"  That's  the  kind  of  woman  that  people  call  the  salt 
of  the  earth,"  muttered  the  landlady,  as  her  tenant  went 
out ;  "  her  very  look  makes  me  a  better  woman.  Yet 
I  was  thinking  hard  of  her  only  a  few  minutes  ago. 
Well  that  was  the  old  native  Adam  in  me.  I  wonder 
how  she  managed  to  drive  him  out.  Going  to  prayer 
meeting  won't  do  it.  I've  tried  that ;  but  then  she  is 
so  different." 


206        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 
CHAPTER   XVI. 

THE    TRAIL    OF    THE    SERPENT. 

Miss  ELIZA  HALSTEAD  was  not  a  person  at  all  likely 
to  leave  any  stone  unturned  which  lay  in  the  path  of  her 
love.  She  knew  something  of  the  power  which  beauty 
has  over  a  }roung  heart,  and  feared  Savage  might  seek 
some  explanation  that  would  exculpate  Anna  Burns 
from  the  evil  that  she  had  imputed  to  her — for  so  pow 
erful  is  genuine  innocence  that  even  prejudice  feels  its 
influence,  let  circumstances  be  ever  so  much  against  it. 

Scarcely  had  Savage  left  the  house,  when  Miss  Eliza 
put  on  her  lilac  bonnet,  with  its  crush-roses  and  point- 
lace.  Carefully  she  smoothed  the  strings,  and  puffed 
out  the  bows  with  her  long  fingers,  leaving  pink  shadows 
all  around  her  face,  almost  as  effective  as  the  bloom  of 
youth.  When  she  had  sufficiently  elaborated  this  por 
tion  of  her  toilet,  she  wrapped  a  costly  shawl  around 
her,  and  stole  softly  out  of  the  house,  resolved  to  keep 
her  visit  and  its  object  a  secret. 

Mrs.  Savage  was  at  home ;  and  would  she  walk  di 
rectly  up  stairs. 

Yes.  Miss  Eliza  swept  her  trailing  silks  up  the  broad 
staircase,  settling  her  shawl  as  she  went — for  she  was 
forever  arranging  and  rearranging  her  dress,  in-doors 
and  out.  Twice  she  paused  before  a  mirror,  impanneled 
in  the  wall,  and  examined  the  flow  of  her  long  skirt, 
over  both  shoulders,  before  she  entered  the  room  in 
which  Mrs.  Savage  was  waiting,  with  Miss  Eliza's  card 
in  her  hand. 

"  What  can  she  mean  ?"  murmured  the  lady,  reading 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        207 

over  some  writing  in  pencil  above  the  name.  "  Some 
thing  to  communicate  of  the  utmost  importance  to  the 
honor  of  the  family — but  here  she  comes.  My  dear 
Miss  Halstead,  I  am  delighted  !  How  good  of  you  to 
come.  Sit  down  here ;  you  will  find  it  more  comfort 
able." 

No.  Miss  Eliza  preferred  to  sit  with  her  back  to  the 
light.  It  took  her  some  minutes  to  compose'  her  dra 
pery  ;  but  at  last  she  settled  down  in  the  crimson  easy- 
chair,  like  some  tropical  bird  in  its  nest,  and  was  ready 
for  the  occasion. 

"Lovely  weather,  isn't  it?"  observed  Mrs.  Savage, 
with  her  blandest  smile.  "  What  a  color  the  air  has 
given  you." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Miss  Eliza,  tightening  her  glove. 
"  My  complexion  is  so  exquisitely  sensitive,  that  a 
breath  of  air  brings  the  bloom  to  my  cheeks." 

Mrs.  Savage  smiled  a  graceful  acquiescence  to  this 
self-praise,  and  hoped  Miss  Eliza  would  never  feel,  as 
she  did,  any  lack  of  youthful  bloom. 

"When  the  time  comes,"  Miss  Eliza  said,  with  a 
smile  of  conscious  superiority,  "  I  must  submit,  like 
others.  But,  Mrs.  Savage,  I  came  on  a  painful  and  hu 
miliating  errand ;  excuse  me,  if  I  am  compelled  to  give 
you  pain ;  but,  after  your  great  kindness  in  throwing 
me  into  the  same  picture  with  your  son,  I  feel  like  a 
traitor  till  you  know  all." 

M-rs.  Savage  bent  her  stately  head,  and  replied  that 
she  was  listening  with  attention. 

"After  that  evening,  which  seemed  to  give  a  dawning 
hope  of  union  between  the  houses  of  Savage  and  Hal- 
stead,  you  will  imagine,  dear  lacty,  that  my  thoughts, 


208        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

hopes,  prayers,  were  all  hovering  around  your  son. 
Knowing  well  that  our  mutual  passion  had  maternal 
sanction,  I  allowed  the  pent-up  feelings  of  a  too  ardent 
nature  to  gush  forth,  till  I  fear  your  noble  son  saw  too 
clearly  into  the  state  of  my  affections.  I  strove  to  con 
ceal  the  rush  of  tender  emotions  that  awoke  to  the 
sound  of  his  very  footstep ;  but  there  are  souls  so 
transparent,  that  a  child  can  read  them.  For  a  time, 
dear  lady,  all  was  hope,  all  was  happiness  ;  true  as  the 
needle  to  the  pole  myself,  I  had  profound  confidence  in 
your  son.  For  a  time  his  conduct  was  all  that  the  most 
devoted  heart  could  desire — I  was  his  ideal,  his  love, 
his  divinity.  Though  he  was  too  delicate  to  say  all 
this,  I  felt  it,  madam,  in  the  very  core  of  this  heart." 

Here  Miss  Eliza  pressed  a  fold  of  a  shawl  that  cov 
ered  her  bosom,  and  went  on. 

"  Then  came  a  frost — a  killing  frost !  Oh !  my  dear 
madam — mother,  may  I  not  call  you  ?  that  girl — that 
creature — who  received  your  bounty  but  to  betray  it, 
has  broken  in  upon  my  pure  dream  of  happiness.  Your 
son  has,  for  some  time,  left  the  refinements  which  circle 
around  my  home,  and,  regardless  of  breaking  the  heart 
that  has  learned  to  adore  him,  has  given  his  time  and 
his  attentions  to  that  creature." 

"What!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Savage,  starting  up  from 
her  elegant  apathy,  her  face  flaming  with  passion,  her 
plump  hand  clenched,  "  my  son — my  son,  Horace  Sav 
age,  visiting  Anna  Burns  !  Miss  Halstead,  you  are 
crazy  with  jealousy;  stung  to  death  in  your  vanity,  to 
say  such  things  of  him.  Why,  he  is  proud  as  I  am, 
honest  as  his  father.  I  do  not  believe  this !" 

Eliza  Halstead  was  rather  pleased  with  this  outbreak. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         209 

She  saw  in  it  a  sure  termination  of  the  attachment  which, 
in  her  belief,  certainly  existed.  That  which  she  had 
failed  to  do,  that  haughty  woman  would  accomplish, 
she  felt  certain. 

"  You  are  severe,  unkind,  to  doubt  me  so,"  was  her 
pathetic  rejoinder.  "  I  have  seen  them  together  in  the 
street." 

"  That  is  nothing,  of  course ;  he  would  speak  to  her 
or  iny  other  person,  poor  and  dependent.  A  Savage  is 
too  proud  for  arrogance.  If  that  is  all  the  proof  you 
have,  permit  me  to  say  that  your  absurd  jealousy  has 
outrun  all  common  sense." 

"  Madam  I"  exclaimed  Miss  Eliza — and  the  angry  red 
outflamed  the  permanent  color  on  her  cheek — "  Madam, 
I  have  seen  him  enter  the  low  house  where  she  lives, 
not  once,  but  half  a  dozen  times.  I  have  seen  him  walk 
ing,  block  after  block,  with  her  down  such  streets  as 
you  never  entered  in  your  life." 

"  But  you  were  there,  it  seems." 

"A  woman's  heart  will  take  her  anywhere  when  she 
suspects  the  object  of  her  love." 

"  Miss  Halstead — but  it  is  useless  arguing  with  you, 
utterly  useless ;  there  is  no  fool  like  an  old  fool !" 

This  very  trite  adage  was  muttered  under  the  lady's 
breath;  but  Miss  Eliza  had  sharp  ears,  and  caught  the 
word  fool. 

"  What  did  you  say,  madam  ?"  she  demanded,  sharply. 

"  Oh,  nothing!  only  that  I  was  an  old  fool,  to  believe 
any  thing  alleged  against  my  son." 

"  Believe  what  you  like,  think  what  you  like,"  an 
swered  the  spinster,  who  was  not  so  easily  deceived ; 
"  I  have  done  my  duty— a  painful,  sad  duty.     All  that 
13 


210        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

I  ask  of  you,  his  mother,  is  silence — secrecy ;  profound 
secrecy  as  to  my  part  in  the  affair.  Owing  all  loyalty 
to  him,  I  have  come  here  to  betray  him  to  his  own 
mother.  It  breaks  nry  heart;  do  not,  I  pray  you, 
madam,  add  one  pang  to  those  which  rend  it  now. 
Remember  the  relations  which  may  one  day  unite  us, 
and  be  faithful  to  the  trust  I  have  reposed  in  you." 

Mrs.  Savage  was  by  this  time  pacing  up  and  down 
her  sumptuous  sitting-room,  trampling  upon  the  flowers 
in  its  map-like  carpet  as  a  tigress  treads  upon  the  grass 
of  its  jungle.  She  was  dreadfully  annoyed;  all  the 
pride  and  unbounded  affection  which  she  had  lavished 
on  her  son,  rose  in  revolt  against  the  tidings  Miss  Eliza 
had  brought  her.  Now  that  her  suspicions  were  aroused, 
she  remembered  many  little  circumstances  calculated  to 
confirm  Miss  Eliza's  statement.  As  this  belief  grew 
strong  upon  her,  the  color  left  her  face,  and  she  sat 
down  in  her  chair,  stern  and  cold,  doubting,  unbe 
lieving. 

"  You  are  sure  of  this  thing  ?"  she  said,  speaking  in 
a  slow,  still  voice.  "  This  is  no  phantasy  of  a  jealous 
imagination  ?" 

Miss  Eliza  drew  close  to  the  woman  whom  she  had 
come  deliberately  to  wound,  and  took  her  hand.  She 
dearly  loved  to  create  a  sensation  of  any  kind,  and  took 
the  palor  and  distress  in  that  proud  face  as  a  personal 
compliment. 

"  Do  not  distress  yourself,  sweet  friend,  my  almost 
mother ;  but  have  faith,  as  I  do,  in  the  immutable  truth 
of  love.  He  may  wander  away  from  me  ;  he  may  have 
one  of  those  fleeting  fancies  for  another  which  some- 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        211 

times  disturb  the  most  faithful  heart,  but  in  the  end  he 
will  return  ;  he  will  be  mine — all  mine !" 

A  smile  quivered  around  Mrs.  Savage's  mouth,  spite 
of  her  distress ;  but  it  passed  away,  leaving  a  stern  ex 
pression  there.  The  evil  was  too  serious  not  to  sweep 
away  all  sense  of  ridicule  in  her  mind. 

"  Now  tell  me  quietly,  and  in  as  few  words  as  possi 
ble,  exactly  what  you  have  seen  or  know  about  this 
affair.  Excuse  me  if  I  have  seemed  rude ;  but  you  took 
me  by  surprise.  Now  let  me  know  the  whole." 

"  I  have  told  you  all,  sweet  friend — that  is,  all  as 
regards  your  son  ;  but  as  for  that  artful  young  person, 
Burns,  really,  as  a  young  girl,  hedged  in  from  such 
knowledge  by  all  sorts  of  refinement,  I  canot  tell  you, 
without  burning  blushes,  how  unworthy  she  is." 

Mrs.  Savage  half  started  from  her  chair. 

"  You  surprise,  you  astonish  me,"  she  said.  "  If  ever 
innocence  was  depicted  in  a  face,  I  thought  it  was  in 
hers." 

"  She  is  artful  enough  to  deceive  you.  She  has  de 
ceived  your  son.  Even  Georgiana  will  believe  nothing 
against  her." 

"  If  she  is  what  you  say,  there  is  little  danger  for 
Horace ;  there  is  too  much  refinement  and  discrimina 
tion  in  his  character  for  a  deception  of  that  kind  to  last 
long  with  him,"  said  the  mother. 

Miss  Eliza  instantly  took  the  alarm.  She  saw  that 
Mrs..  Savage  had  too  much  faith  in  her  son's  principles 
for  any  fear  of  a  person  who  could  shock  them,  and  with 
crafty  adroitness  sought  to  undo  the  impression  she  had 
made. 

"  Perhaps  I  have  gone  too  far,"  she  said,  retreating 


212         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

gracefully.  "  My  own  love  of  truth  is  so  profound,  that 
the  least  deviation  seems  to  me  like  a  crime.  She  pro 
fesses  to  be  every  thing  that  is  meek  and  good,  yet  I 
cannot  believe  in  it.  Without  some  falsehood,  some 
deception,  she  could  not  have  won  such  influence  over  a 
heart  that  is,  in  reality,  all  mine,  as  those  who  saw  him 
kneeling  at  my  feet  that  night  must  have  felt." 

"  Let  that  pass,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Savage,  with  a  ges 
ture  of  impatience.  "  You  really  know  nothing  against 
this  girl,  except  that  she  is  beautiful  and  lovely?" 

"  I  never  said  she  was  beautiful,"  cried  Miss  Eliza. 
"Never!" 

"  But  I  know  that  she  is,  and,  to  all  appearance,  a 
modest,  well-bred  girl.  Seeing  all  this,  I  was  an  idiot 
to  introduce  her  as  I  did." 

"  I  thought  so  all  the  time,"  said  Miss  Eliza,  demure 
ly.  "  Not  that  I  think  of  her  as  beautiful  or  well-bred — 
far  from  it ;  but  those  artful  young  creatures  do  fascin 
ate  men  some  way  quite  unaccountably.  I  cannot  bear 
to  think  of  it." 

"  You  are  sure  that  he  visits  her  house?" 

"  Sure  as  I  am  of  my  own  life." 

"And  that  he  walks  with  her  in  the  street  ?" 

"  I  have  seen  him  join  her  not  a  block  from  your  own 
door,  and  never  leave  her  till  she  reached  that  which 
leads  to  her  rooms  in  the  garret  of  a  tenement-house 
where  she  now  resides." 

"  Where  is  this  house  ?" 

Miss  Eliza  reluctantly  gave  the  street  and  number 
where  Anna  Burns  lived. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Savage  ;  "  you  have  done  me 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         213 

a  great  service.  I  will  think  what  steps  had  best  be 
taken  in  the  matter." 

"And  you  will  keep  my  visit  a  secret  ?  Situated  as 
we  are,  he  might  think  it  indelicate  for  me  to  interfere." 

"  I  will  not  mention  your  name  in  the  matter,"  an 
swered  Mrs.  Savage,  wearily. 

Miss  Eliza  arose,  shook  out  the  drapery  of  her  dress, 
kissed  Mrs.  Savage  with  elaborate  affection,  and  left  the 
room,  well  satisfied  with  the  work  she  had  done. 

Mrs.  Savage  was  a  proud,  impetuous  woman,  well 
calculated  for  a  leader  in  social  life,  and  in  all  respects 
the  mistress  of  her  own  house.  Such  women  are  usually 
ardent  in  their  attachments ;  willing  to  die  for  those 
they  love ;  ready  to  turn  the  world  over  in  their  bejhalf ; 
but  well  disposed  to  regulate  and  control  the  happiness 
they  are  so  earnest  in  securing. 

There  was  no  being  in  the  world  to  whom  young  Sav 
age  was  so  much  attached  as  his  mother.  There  was 
something  chivalric  in  his  admiration  of  her  talent,  and 
in  the  loving  pride  that  he  felt  in  her  womanliness.  He 
saw  her  by  the  graceful  force  of  a  superior  will  govern 
ing  other  women,  and  charming  strong  men  into  her 
service.  He  knew  that  she  was  grand  in  her  mag 
nanimity  when  it  was  once  aroused ;  but  sometimes  more 
disposed  to  be  generous  than  just,  when  the  tide  of  her 
strong  prejudices  set  in  against  the  truth.  She  was, 
indeed,  a  woman  of  whom  any  son  might  well  have  been 
proud — full  of  faults,  and  rich  in  magnificent  virtues. 
For  the  world  he  would  not  have  given  this  woman 
pain ;  for  he,  above  all  others,  knew  what  a  cruel  thing 
pain  was  to  her.  For  this  reason  he  had,  perhaps,  un 
consciously  kept  his  knowledge  of  Anna  Burns  a  secret 


214        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

from  her  until  quite  assured  that  this  feeling,  which 
seemed  so  like  love,  was  an  enduring  passion ;  he  would 
not  disturb  his  mother  by  confessing  it.  There  was 
nothing  like  domestic  treason  in  this.  The  young  man 
was  not  quite  sure  of  himself.  Refined,  fastidious,  and 
over-educated  as  he  was,  the  feelings  which  sprang  up 
in  his  heart  regarding  this  girl  were  a  wonder  to  his 
own  mind.  They  were  so  opposed  to  all  his  relations 
in  life  that  he  could  not  believe  in  them ;  yet  they  were 
there  strong  as  his  life. 

About  the  time  that  he  learned  of  Ward's  residence 
in  the  same  house  with  Anna  Burns,  he  had  resolved  to 
open  his  heart  to  his  mother,  and  tell  her  all.  Savage 
had  at  this  time  resolved  to  make  Anna  Burns  his  wife. 
The  first  step  ho  took  in  that  direction  was  to  seek 
Georgiana  Halstead,  and  ask  her  aid  in  removing  the 
object  of  his  love  to  a  less  revolting  home,  and  in  sur 
rounding  her  with  associates  kindred  to  her  character 
rather  than  her  position.  This  done,  he  fully  intended 
to  make  that  proud  mother  his  next  confidant. 

A  single  hour  had  swept  all  these  honorable  projects 
from  his  mind.  He  had  listened  with  scornful  incredu 
lity  to  the  charges  made  against  the  lady  of  his  love  by 
Miss  Eliza.  But  his  own  eyes  were  not  to  be  disbe 
lieved  ;  the  evidence  of  that  roughly  honest  landlady 
had  been  complete.  He  had  been  about  to  sacrifice  him 
self  to  an  artful,  unprincipled  girl,  who  could  share  love, 
true  and  generous  as  his,  with  a  creature  like  that  Ward. 
He  had  seen  them  together ;  he  had  seen  her  hand  in 
his.  He  knew  that  they  dwelt  under  the  same  squalid 
roof.  It  was  enough.  Never,  in  this  world,  would  he 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        215 

mention  that  girl's  name  to  his  mother.  She  had 
wronged  him  too  cruelly. 

Savage,  stung  to  the  soul  with  these  feelings,  sent  a 
note  to  his  mother  that  he  was  going  into  the  country 
for  a  few  days — and  went  away,  in  what  direction  he 
neither  knew  nor  cared.  He  had  been  humiliated, 
wounded  in  his  love  and  in  his  pride  beyond  bearing; 
so  much  as  he  had  been  willing  to  give  up  for  the  sake 
of  that  girl's  love — and  she  knew  it.  The  infatuation 
must  have  been  coarse  and  deep  which  could  have  led 
her  from  the  prospects  his  love  would  have  secured,  to 
the  evil  fortunes  of  that  gambler. 

Mrs.  Savage  received  her  son's  note  just  after  Eliza 
Halstead  left  the  house.  She  was  glad  to  know  that  he 
had  left  town.  In  her  present  state  of  feeling  she  could 
not  have  met  him  with  the  equanimity  which  her  pride 
demanded.  While  he  was  gone,  she  would  see  this  girl, 
and  sweep  away  the  temptation  that  had  beset  him,  if 
eloquence  or  money  could  do  it. 

It  was  honorable  to  the  mother,  and  most  honorable 
to  the  son,  that  Mrs.  Savage  never  once  imputed  a  dis 
honorable  thought  to  the  visits  that  had  been  described 
to  her — proud,  generous  women  like  her  are  not  apt  to 
think  the  worst  of  human  nature.  She  would  have  felt 
as  much  degraded  by  an  immoral  or  dishonorable  act  in 
her  son,  as  if  it  had  fastened  upon  her  own  person. 

"  If  I  do  not  prevent  it,  he  will  marry  this  girl,"  she 
said ;  "  and  I,  fool  that  I  was,  have  cast  her  in  his  way. 
There  is  poor  Georgiana  wronged  and  deserted.  Not 
that  he  ever  said  much  to  her ;  but  I  had  so  set  my 
heart  on  it,  that  every  word  I  said  to  the  dear  child  was 
a  promise.  Heaven  bless  that  vicious  old  maid  for 


216        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

warning  me  in  time  1  What  a  character  she  is — how 
silkily  she  kept  down  the  venom  of  her  tongue.  I  won 
der  Halstead  can  endure  her  in  the  house." 

Thus  Mrs.  Savage  wandered  in  her  thoughts  as  she 
closed  her  son's  note.  She  had  received  a  hard  blow, 
but  women  like  her  do  not  spend  much  time  in  recrimi 
nation  when  work  is  to  be  done. 

"I  will  go  at  once,"  she.  thought.  "This  may  be 
nothing  serious,  after  all ;  Horace  is  so  generous,  and 
he  knew  of  their  poverty.  This  may  only  be  one  of  his 
private  charities,  which  the  old  maid  has  tortured  into 
a  love  romance." 

Mrs.  Savage  followed  out  these  thoughts  by  ringing 
for  her  maid,  and  ordering  her  shawl  and  bonnet  to  be 
brought  down ;  but  the  girl  had  hardly  left  the  room 
when  a  servant  came  from  the  hall,  and  inquired  if  Mrs. 
Savage  could  spare  a  minute  to  the  young  person  who 
came  so  often  about  the  fine  sewing  ? 

"  Let  her  come  up — let  her  come  up,"  answered  the 
lady,  in  eager  haste.  "M.ary,  you  need  not  get  the 
things ;  I  shall  not  go  out  just  now." 

Anna  Burns  came  into  the  room  softly  as  a  tear  falls. 
She  was  pale,  and  a  sad  sweetness  made  her  face  touch- 
ingly  lovely. 

"  I  have  brought  the  work  home,"  she  said,  laying  a 
roll  of  embroidered  muslin  on  the  table,  and  leaning 
against  the  marble  for  support.  "  And — and  I  have 
come  to  say  that  grandmother  does  not  think  it  best 
that  I  should  take  any  more." 

Anna's  voice  shook,  and  the  woman  who  listened  knew 
that  it  trembled  through  suppressed  tears. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         217 

"  Why  do  you  give  up  work?"  she  inquired,  with  un 
conscious  sympathy  in  her  voice. 

"  I — I Because  grandmother  thinks  it  best. 

Carrying  home  the  work  takes  me  a  good  deal  into  the 
street,  and  she  does  not  think  that  good  for  me." 

"  Your  grandmother  is  a  prudent  woman.  But  how 
are  you  to  live  without  work  ?" 

"I  don't  know.  Perhaps  I  can  find  something  to  do 
that  wont  take  me  away  from  home  just  at  present,  at 
least." 

Mrs.  Savage  took  up  the  roll  of  work  and  began  to 
examine  it.  Woman  of  the  world  as  she  was,  something 
gentle  and  good  about  that  girl  prevented  her  speaking 
out  as  she  had  proposed  do.  The  sad,  wistful  look 
turned  upon  her  bespoke  too  much  sorrow  for  ungentle 
handling. 

"Sit  down,"  she  said,  gently,  as  if  she  had  been  ad 
dressing  a  naughty  child,  "  I  wish  to  speak  with  you." 

Anna  sat  down  with  a  frightened  look,  and  trembling 
a  little  as  the  lady  could  see. 

"  You  know  my  son.  Anna  Burns  ?" 

"Yes  ;  yes,  madam,  a  little — that  is,  I  did." 

"  He  has  been  to  your  house  ?" 

"  To  our  rooms  you  mean,  lady  ?  Yes,  he  has  been 
there." 

"  More  than  once  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes  !  more  than  once.  We — we  did  not  think 
there  was  any  harm  in  it." 

Anna's  eyes  were  filling  with  tears  ;  her  lips  quivered 
like  those  of  a  grieved  child  just  before  it  bursts  into  a 
cry. 

"  Did  he  help  you " 


218        THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

"  Madam !» 

"  Did  he  give  you  money  ?    Was  it  for  that  he  came  ?" 

"Money?  Oh  !  he  would  not  do  that.  Grandmother 
is  a  lady ;  and  no  one  ever  offers  her  money,  most  of  all, 
Mr.  Savage." 

There  was  no  deception  here.  Those  eyes  were 
lifted  to  the  proud  woman's  questioning,  clearly  and 
purely  as  the  stars  of  heaven  shine  on  earth.  Mrs. 
Savage  hesitated  and  looked  down,  there  was  too  much 
of  the  woman  in  her  heart  not  to  shrink  from  the  task 
she  had  imposed  on  herself. 

At  last  she  took  the  girl's  hand  in  her  own,  and  felt 
that  it  trembled  there  like  a  frightened  bird. 

"Anna  Burns,  has  my  son  ever  said  that  he  loved 
you?" 

Anna  strugged  to  free  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  madam !  Oh,  lady !  this  is  punishing  me  too 
much !» 

"Answer  me,  Anna,  I  mean  nothing  unkind ;  but  I 
must  know.  Has  my  son  ever  said  that  he  loved  you  ?" 

Anna  sat  upright.  Her  face  had  been  scarlet  a  mo 
ment  before ;  now  it  was  white  as  snow. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  gentle  firmness.  "  He  has  said 
that  he  loved  me  more  than  once." 

"And  you  believed  him?" 

"  Believed  him  ?     Oh,  yes  !" 

"  One  question  more,  Anna.     Do  you  love  him  ?" 

"  Lady,  I  am  a  very  young  girl,  and  hardly  know 
what  love  is.  But  I  hope  God  will  forgive  me  if  it  is 
wrong  to  think  so  often  and  so  much  of  Mr.  Savage  1" 

"  This  is  very  sad,"  murmured  the  lady  ;  and  she  held 
the  little  hand  in  hers  closer  when  she  spoke  again. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        219 

"  Has  he  ever  said  any  thing  about  marrying  you. 
Anna  ?" 

"  I  think  so.  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  what  he 
meant ;  but  that  was  before " 

"  Before  what,  Anna  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  would  rather  not  talk  any  more 
about  it,  madam,  if  you  please." 

"Anna,  let  me  talk  seriously  with  you.  There  is  a 
great  distinction  between  you  and  my  son." 

"  I  know  it — I  know  it.  Grandmother  said  exactly 
those  words." 

"  He  cannot  marry  you." 

"  Oh !  madam." 

"  You  must  save  him  from  the  ruin  such  a  step  would 
bring  upon  him." 

"Ruin?" 

"Yes,  ruin!  I,  his  mother,  never  would  consent. 
He  would  lose  his  high  place  in  society.  He  would  re 
gret  the  step  within  a  month  after  it  was  taken." 

Anna  grew  paler  and  paler,  the  quivering  of  her  lips 
became  convulsive. 

"  That  is  the  reason — that  is  why  he  would  not  speak 
to  me.  Oh !  madam,  my  heart  is  breaking." 

"  Better  the  pain  now  than  when  it  is  too  late,  child. 
Give  him  up — give  him  up,  and  I  will  see  that  neither 
you  nor  yours  shall  ever  want." 

"  It  is  too  late — too  late,  lady.  He  has  given  me  up. 
I  understand  it  all  now.  Let  me  go  home.  I  am  faint 
— so,  so  fain " 

The  sentence  died  out  in  a  murmur  on  those  white 
lips.  Anna  had  fainted  at  the  proud  woman's  feet. 


220         THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS. 
CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   NEW   LIGHT. 

WHEN  Anna  Burns  awoke  from  that  deathly  fainting 
fit,  Mrs.  Savage  was  leaning  over  her,  with  pain  and 
sorrow  in  her  fine  features.  The  unhappy  girl  looked 
so  white  and  broken  in  her  insensibility  that  it  touched 
her  to  the  heart. 

"  Poor  child  !  it  is  a  sad  pity,"  she  murmured,  lifting 
Anna's  head  to  her  lap.  "  But  these  things,  happily,  do 
not  prove  fatal.  She  should  not  have  lifted  her  eyes  to 
my  Horace.  Dear  fellow !  no  wonder  he  thinks  her 
pretty." 

"  Let  me  go  home,  lady  1  Let  me  go  home !"  said 
Anna,  drearily.  "  I  will  do  any  thing  you  say,  only  let 
me  go  home  I" 

"  Wait  a  little,  my  child ;  take  a  glass  of  wine,  it  will 
make  you  strong.  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  now." 

"I  will  wait,"  said  Anna;  "but  no  wine;  grand 
mother  will  make  me  some  tea  when  I  get  home." 

"I — I  wished  to  say  a  word  more  about  my  son." 

"Well,  madam,  I  will  try  and  listen." 

"  I  have  said  that  it  would  be  his  total  ruin  if " 

"If  he  married  me.  Yes  ;  I  know — I  know ;  please 
do  not  say  it  over  again,  it  kills  me." 

"  I  think,  Anna  Burns,  you  love  him  well  enough  to 
save  him." 

"  I — I  love  him  well  enough  for — for  almost  any 
thing." 

"  There  is  but  one  thing  you  can  do  for  him." 

Anna  lifted  her  large,  questioning  eyes  to  meet  those 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.       221 

of  Mrs.  Savage — and  that  look  made  speech  unneces 
sary. 

"  Your  eyes  ask  me  what  it  is  you  can  do." 

"  Yes."  The  words  fell  faintly  from  those  white  lips, 
as  they  began  to  quiver  again. 

"  Keep  out  of  his  way.  Leave  the  place  you  live  in 
—I  will  supply  the  means.  Move  to  some  other  city. 
Go  into  the  country ;  do  any  thing  but  see  him  again." 

Again  Anna  lifted  those  eyes  to  the  proud  woman's 
face ;  and  this  time  the  fine,  blue  eyes  of  the  lady  fell 
under  her  glance. 

"  Is  there  no  other  way  ?" 

"  None  in  the  world.  Listen,  child.  You  are  pretty, 
I  admit — lady-like,  refined,  surpassingly  so ;  but  my 
son  has  a  position  to  maintain,  a  career  of  ambition 
before  him.  We  have  no  other  child,  and  have  founded 
high  hopes  on  him.  This  marriage,  if  he,  indeed,  thinks 
of  it,  would  destroy  them  all.  His  father  never  would 
be  brought  to  sanction  it ;  he  never  would  recognize 
you.  As  for  me,  I  should  forgive  him,  perhaps,  but  you, 
never !" 

"  It  will  not  happen,  lady.  I  shall  never  need  your 
forgiveness.  You  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Savage  had 
thought  better  of  it  already — that  he  does  not  speak  to 
me  in  the  street.  That " 

Anna  stopped,  for  a  quick  rush  of  tears  was  choking 
her. 

"  Indeed !     Is  this  true  ?" 

"  Indeed,  indeed  it  is,  lady !" 

"And  what  is  the  reason  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  obeying  your  command,  lady  ?" 


222   THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 

"  No,  I  have  never  spoken  of  this — never  heard  of  it 
till  this  morning." 

"  Then  he  must  have  been  angry  with  me  about " 

,  "  Well,  about  what  ?" 

"About  Mr.  Ward." 

"  Mr.  Ward—what  of  him  ?  Is  it  the  Ward  I  know 
— the  great  friend  of  young  Gould  ?" 

"  I — I  think  so.  He  has  been  cruel  to  me  ;  he  would 
come  to  live  in  the  house." 

"  Live  in  the  same  house  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  would  do  it.  We  did  not  know  about  it 
at  the  time.  Then  he  contrived  to  meet  me  on  the  stairs, 
and  follow  me  into  the  street.  Mr.  Savage  saw  him 
there  one  day.  It  was  then  he  did  not  speak  to  me. 
But  I  was  not  to  blame.  Oh,  lady  !  pity  me  a  little ; 
for  since  then,  I  have  been  so  miserable." 

"  It  will  not  last.  I  give  you  my  experience  that  it 
will  not  last.  I  will  inquire  about  young  Ward.  He 
has  no  family  or  connections  to  speak  of.  There  could 
be  no  objections  to  that  match,  if  he  really  fancies  you, 
I  should  suppose.  Come,  come,  cheer  up ;  the  other  is 
out  of  the  question,  you  know;  but  if  young  Ward 
comes  forward,  I  should  not  in  the  least  mind  giving 
you  a  wedding  outfit,  and  a  neat  little  sum  of  money. 
Take  these  things  into  consideration,  like  a  good  girl. 
This  fancy  for  my  son  will  soon  exhaust  itself." 

Anna  stood  up  firmly  now,  and  drew  the  shawl,  that 
had  partly  fallen  off,  about  her  person  with  a  proud 
grace  that  astonished  the  woman  who  had  wounded 
her  so. 

"  Lady,  be  content ;  I  will  not,  if  possible,  see  your 


THE   SOLDIEK'S   OKPHANS.        223 

son  again ;  but  to  speak  of  another,  especially  that  man, 
is  worse  than  cruel,  it  is  insulting." 

The  red  flush  of  a  haughty  spirit,  ashamed  of  itself, 
swept  over  the  lady's  face. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  wound  or  insult  you,"  she  said. 

"No,  lady;  you  only  forgot  that  a  poor  girl  who 
works  hard  for  her  living  may  have  a  little  pride,  and 
some  shadow  of  delicacy." 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not  forget  any  thing  of  the  kind  ;  but 
I  am  anxious  to  save  my  son  from  a  step  that  I  hon 
estly  believe  he  would  repent  of,  and  have  frankly  asked 
you  to  help  me.  Another  woman  would  have  taken 
different  and  harsher  means ;  I  stoop  to  entreat,  implore 
you  to  give  him  up." 

"Lady,  I  have— I  do." 

"This  fact  about  young  Ward  will,  if  you  manage  it 
wisely,  be  a  great  assistance.  My  son  is  proud  and 
peculiarly  sensitive.  If  he  supposed  that  you  encour 
aged  this  young  man,  it  would  go  far  to  cure  him  of  his 
folly." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  lady  ?" 

"  This.  He  now  thinks,  doubtless,  that  you  have  en 
couraged  young  Ward  to  come  under  the  same  roof 
with  you.  He  has  already  seen  him  with  you  iu  the 
street.  Do  not  undeceive  him — that  will  be  his  cure." 

"  But  what  will  he,  what  can  he  think  of  me  ?" 

"No  matter  what  he  thinks.  You  will  never  meet 
again ;  and  if  you  should,  all  this  foolish  passion  will 
have  been  swept  aw^y  on  both  sides.  Then  you  can 
inform  him  with  safety." 

"  Lady,  do  not  ask  me  to  act  in  this  way.  I  can  give 
up  his  love,  but  not  his  respect." 


224        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Not  for  a  time  ?  If  it  will  restore  him  to  himself— 
to  the  parents  who  love  him  better  than  themselves  ?" 

"  I  could  not  force  myself  to  do  that,  madam." 

"  But  he  may  return  to  you." 

Anna's  eyes  sparkled  through  the  tears  that  hung  on 
those  curling  lashes.  Mrs.  Savage  saw  the  look,  and 
her  own  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"  You  wish  it.     I  see  you  wish  it,"  she  said. 

"  If  I  do,  it  is  because  even  a  new  pain  would  be 
something  like  a  relief  to  the  dull  ache  here,"  answered 
the  young  girl,  laying  a  hand  on  her  heart.  "  You  have 
my  promise,  lady,  not  to  see  your  son  again,  if  I  can 
help  it.  After  that,  any  conditions  you  may  make  are 
of  little  importance.  You  are  right ;  it  does  not  matter 
what  he  thinks  of  me.  Do  with  me  as  you  will,  I  can 
not  be  more  wretched  than  I  am." 

Anna  sat  down  in  a  chair,  simply  because  she  was  too 
weak  for  the  upright  position  she  had  bravely  main 
tained  till  then;  but  her  face  was  turned  upon  the 
proud  woman  with  a  look  that  seemed  to  be  making  a 
last  plead  for  her  life. 

"  I  wish  it  could  be  avoided.  Do  believe  me,  I  am 
giving  myself  almost  as  much  pain  as  you  can  feel ;  but 
firmness  here  is  mercy.  Promise  not  to  see  my  son 
again." 

"  I  have— I  have  !" 

These  words  were  uttered  in  a  cry  of  absolute  an 
guish,  that  drove  the  blood  from  Mrs.  Savage's  face ; 
but  she  was  firm  as  a  rock,  notwithstanding  this  strain 
on  her  sympathy. 

"  Promise,  if  you  should  be  forced  to  see  him,  that  no 
explanations  shall  be  made.  Let  him  keep  his  present 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         225 

impression,  injurious  as  it  may  be,  regarding  young 
Ward." 

Poor  Anna  Burns !  These  were  hard  conditions, 
harder  than  she  knew  of;  for,  brought  up  by  that  pure 
and  gentle  old  woman,  more  carefully  than  most  city 
belles  ever  were,  she  had  no  idea  that  any  one  could 
think  worse  of  her  than  that  she  had  encouraged  the 
honorable  attentions  of  this  man  Ward.  But  that 
thought  alone  was  enough  to  make  her  young  heart 
swell  with  bitter  humiliation. 

"  Lady,  he  cannot  believe  it.  He  never  will  believe 
that  I  could  turn  from  him  to  that  dreadful  man,"  she 
cried,  in  a  passion  of  resentment.  "  There  is  not  a  girl 
on  earth  who  could  be  so  insane." 

"  But  it  seems  he  does  believe  it,"  answered  the  lady. 

Anna's  uplifted  hand  fell  heavily  into  her  lap. 

"  True  1  true  I"  she  repeated,  in  a  heart-broken  voice. 
"  He  saw  us  together ;  he  would  not  speak  to  me." 

She  got  up  wearily  now,  and  besought  Mrs.  Savage 
to  let  her  depart. 

"  I  have  promised  every  thing,"  she  said.  "  There 
is  nothing  more  that  you  can  want  of  me." 

"But  I,  too,  have  promised  something." 

"What?" 

"  Help,  protection,  money,  if  you  need  it." 

Anna  turned  upon  her  like  a  hunted  doe,  her  cheeks 
red  with  passionate  pride,  her  eyes  on  fire. 

"  Madam,  I  give  you  back  your  son,  I  do  not  sell 
him." 

"  Then  you  reject  kindness.  You  will  accept 
nothing?"  faltered  Mrs.  Savage. 

Anna  did  not  answer,  but  walked  quietly  out  of  the 
» 1* 


226        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

room,  with  her  hand  clenched  under  the  scant  shawl, 
and  her  lips  pressed  firmly  together.  For  the  first  time 
in  her  life  she  was  really  in  a  passion. 

Mrs.  Savage,  shocked  by  the  surprise  of  this  out 
break,  stood  speechless  till  the  girl  had  disappeared. 
When  she  did  find  words,  they  came  in  a  burst  of  ad 
miration. 

"  Upon  my  word,  she  is  a  splendid  young  creature ! 
I  do  not  wonder  that  Horace  is  infatuated  with  her. 
She  absolutely  makes  me  ashamed  of  myself.  If  it 
were  not  for  Georgiana No,  no !  it  never  can  be." 

As  Anna  was  going  home,  stepping  proudly,  from 
the  pure  force  of  such  resentment,  as  few  women  could 
feel  and  retain  their  dignity,  she  met  little  Joseph,  with 
a  bundle  of  papers  under  his  arm. 

"  Please,  will  you  buy  a  paper,  Miss  ?  Ledger !  Tele 
graph  I  Bulletin  I"  he  said,  with  a  rogueish  little  laugh. 
"  Only  five  cents  !" 

Anna  recognized  this  gentle  pleasantry,  and  turning 
upon  him,  tried  to  smile,  but  instead  of  the  smile  came 
a  burst  of  tears  that  seemed  to  freeze  little  Joseph  in 
his  tracks. 

"  Why,  Anna,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  he  said,  laying  his 
papers  on  the  side-walk,  and  clinging  to  her  hand,  which 
was  grasping  the  shawl  hard  in  her  anguish.  "  Why, 
how  it  trembles!  Poor  little  hand!  Poor,  darling 
sister !  what  is  it  that  makes  you  cry  so  ?  Stoop  down, 
Anna,  and  let  me  kiss  you.  Nobody  is  in  sight.  There ! 
There  !  Doesn't  that  make  you  feel  better  ?" 

"  Yes,  darling,  yes  1"  faltered  Anna,  striving  to  hide 
the  ache  at  her  heart  with  a  smile  that  was  so  mournful 
that  it  almost  made  the  gentle  boy  cry  too. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        227 

"  There  is  a  man  coming  round  the  corner,  or  I'd  give 
you  plenty  of  'em !  Indeed,  I  would !"  he  said,  feeling 
in  his  pocket  and  drawing  forth  some  crumpled  money. 
"I've  had  pretty  good  luck  to-day,  Anna  ;  only  see ! 
Suppose  we  go  out  on  a  bender,  and  get  a  plate  of  ice 
cream  between  us  ?" 

Anna  shook  her  head,  and  drew  the  veil  over  her 
face. 

"  What  is  that  for  ?     Don't  you  see  it  is  Mr.  Savage." 

Anna  snatched  her  shawl  from  the  boy's  grasp,  and 
hurrying  past  him,  turned  the  next  corner. 

Horace  Savage  quickened  his  step  as  he  saw  the  boy, 
who  had  gathered  up  his  papers,  and  stood  looking  after 
his  sister,  surprised  by  her  strange  conduct. 

"Ah,  ha!  my  little  friend,  is  it  you?"  said  Savage, 
speaking  with  great  kindness.  "  How  is  trade  to-day  ? 
Hand  me  out  two  or  three  papers,  that's  a  fine  fellow." 

Joseph  forgot  his  usual  alacrity,  but  stood  looking 
toward  the  corner  where  his  sister  had  disappeared  in 
sad  bewilderment. 

"  What  did  she  run  away  for  ?"  he  said  at  last,  appeal 
ing  to  the  young  man.  "Is  she  afraid  of  you ?" 

"  Of  whom  are  you  speaking,  Joseph  ?" 

"  Of  sister  Anna,  to-be-sure." 

"  I  saw  a  lady  going  round  the  corner,  bnt  did  not 
observe  her  much — was  that  your  sister?" 

"  Yes  it  was.  Some  one  has  been  making  her  cry. 
.  Who  is  it,  I  wonder?" 

"  How  should  I  know?"  answered  the  young  man, 
smiling  a  little  at  the  boy's  earnestness.  "Was  she 
really  crying  ?" 

"Not  at  first;  she  was  walking  along  as  proud  as  a 


228         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

queen,  with  her  head  up,  and  her  cheeks  as  red  as  two 
peaches ;  but  when  I  spoke  to  her  and  asked  her  to  buy 
some  papers — all  in  fun,  you  know — she  burst  right  out 
a  crying.  I  declare,  sir,  it  was  enough  to  break  one's 
heart.  If  I  hadn't  been  a  fellow  in  business,  with  pro 
perty  to  take  care  of,  I  should  have  burst  out  crying 
with  her.  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  sister  Anna, 
to  go  on  as  she  does." 

"Why,  how  does  she  go  on?"  inquired  Horace, 
prompted  to  the  question  by  the  love  which  would  not 
be  crowded  out  of  his  heart.  "  She  ought  to  be  very 
happy,  I  should  think." 

"  But  she  isn't,  sir.  She  doesn't  eat  as  much  as  a 
chipper-bird ;  and  as  for  sleep,  grandma  says  she  don't 
close  her  eyes  sometimes  all  night." 

"  Indeed  !    What  can  trouble  her  so,  Joseph  ?" 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I  think  it  is,"  answered  Joseph, 
lifting  his  innocent  young  face  toward  that  of  the 
young  man,  "  I  believe  it's  that  Mr.  Ward's  being  in 

the  house.  He  torments  sister  Anna,  and  she Well, 

I  really  do  believe  she  can't  bear  him." 

"Can't  bear  him,  Joseph?"  cried  Savage,  with  a 
sudden  glow  of  the  whole  countenance. 

"  Yes,  it's  almost  that,  wicked  as  it  is.  I'm  sure  of 
it.  Just  as  likely  as  not  he  has  been  following  her  out 
again,  and  trying  to  make  her  walk  with  him.  That 
always  makes  her  come  back  with  red  cheeks,  and  such 
angry  eyes,  that  one  doesn't  hardly  know  her." 

"Are  you  sure  that  she  does  not  like  him,  Joseph  ?" 

"Like?  Why,  she  hates  him.  Only  sister  Anna 
can't  hate  much,  you  know — it  isn't  in  her." 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS.        229 

"But  why  does  Mr.  Ward  follow  your  sister  into  the. 
street,  when  he  could  so  easily  visit  her  at  home?" 

"  No  he  can't,  though.  Anna  goes  into  the  bedroom 
if  he  only  knocks.  As  for  grandma,  why  she  sits  up  so 
straight,  and  looks  at  him  so  steady,  that  he  makes  be 
lieve  to  ask  for  something,  and  goes  away  mad  enough.'* 

"  Then  he  is  never  welcomed  in  your  room?" 

"  Welcomed  !  I  should  rather  think  not.  Why,  Mr. 
Savage,  he  isn't  the  least  bit  of  a  gentleman.  When 
grandma  went  down  to  his  room  and  told  him  how  in 
convenient  and  unpleasant  it  was  to  have  him  there, 
and  Anna  so  young,  he  almost  laughed  at  her.  Grand 
ma's  eyes  were  as  bright  as  stars,  I  can  tell  you,  when 
she  came  up-stairs  again.  She's  a  real  lady,  is  grand 
ma,  and  it  isn't  often  that  any  one  dares  to  treat  her 
so." 

"Did  your  grandmother  really  ask  Mr.  Ward  to  go 
away?" 

"Yes,  she  did,  right  to  his  face." 

"Joseph,  I  have  been  keeping  you  a  long  time,  break 
ing  up  business,  and  that  isn't  fair.  There  is  money 
enough  for  your  whole  stock.  I  can't  carry  it  away, 
you  see ;  but  sell  the  papers  out  at  half  price  and  go 
home." 

Joseph  took  the  offered  money,  and  insisted  on  forc 
ing  some  copies  of  his  stock  on  Savage,  who  took  them 
in  order  to  give  a  business  air  to  the  transaction. 

"  Don't  say  any  thing  to  your  sister  about  what  we've 
been  talking  of,  Joseph,"  he  said,  a  little  anxiously. 
"  It  might  annoy  her,  you  know,  if  she  thought  I  knew 
she  had  been  crying  in  the  street." 


230        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"No,"  said  Joseph,  confidential!}'.  "I  wouldn't  say 
any  thing  to  make  her  feel  bad  for  the  world." 

"But  you  are  quite  certain  of  all  you've  told  me, 
little  Joseph?" 

"Certain?  Of  course  I  am.  But,  Mr.  Savage,  if 
you'd  just  as  lief  call  me  Joseph  without  the  little,  I'd 
rather.  When  a  boy  gets  into  business  for  himself,  it's 
apt  to  hurt  him  in  the  way  of  trade  to  be  called  'little,* 
our  Robert  says.  It  isn't  me,  remember — I  don't  mind  ; 
but  our  Robert  is  a  capital  business  man,  and  he's  very 
particular  about  it  '  in  a  commercial  point  of  view' — 
these  are  his  very  words." 

"Well,  Joseph,  I'll  be  careful." 

"  Thank  you,  sir  ;  I  hope  you'll  be  coming  to  see  us 
soon.  Grandma  is  always  glad  to  see  you." 

"And  no  one  else,  Joseph  ?" 

"  Of  course,  we're  all  glad,"  answered  the  boy,  in 
stinctively  keeping  his  sister  in  the  background  ;  Robert 
and  I,  particularly." 

I  am  not  quite  certain  that  Horace  Savage  felt  so 
grateful  for  this  delicate  reserve  as  he  ought  to  have 
been ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  he  did  not  go  out  of 
town  that  night,  and  was  in  better  spirits,  during  the 
day  than  had  been  usual  to  him  for  a  week  past.  His 
mother  was  greatly  surprised  to  see  him  come  home 
that  afternoon  as  usual ;  but  received  his  excuses  for 
what  seemed  a  capricious  change  of  mind  with  great 
good-humor. 

"  Fortunately,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  saw  the  girl 
before  he  relented.  She  will  keep  her  word,  poor  thing, 
though  he  may  make  it  hard  for  her." 

It  was  wonderful  what  confidence  this  woman  of  the 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        231 

world  placed  in  the  young  creature  whose  life  she  was 
breaking  up.  Like  a  wise  diplomat,  she  let  her  sou 
take  his  own  wav  unquestioned. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

"GRANDMOTHER!" 

"Well,  my  dear." 

Anna  did  not  answer  at  first,  but  sat  for  a  time  lost 
in  thought.  At  last  she  spoke  again,  but  in  a  voice  so 
constrained  that  the  old  lady  looked  at  her  with  sudden 
anxiety. 

"  Grandmother,  how  long  would  it  take  us  to  move  ?" 

"  Not  long,"  answered  the  old  lady ;  "  we  have  not 
much  to  pack  up.  Two  or  three  hours  would  get  us 
reacty  for  the  cart,  if  we  all  worked." 

"  Could  we  go  to-night,  grandmother?" 

"  We  could,  certainly — but  where  ?" 

"  I  have  found  a  place.  When  Miss  Halstead  was 
here  the  other  day,  she  told  me  of  a  little  house  which 
belonged  to  her  grandmother,  who  did  not  care  to  rent 
it  just  then,  and  wanted  a  nice,  quiet  family  to  take 
charge  of  it.  She  had  mentioned  us  to  the  old  lady, 
and  we  are  just  the  kind  of  people  she  wants." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  house,  Anna?" 

"  No,  grandmother ;  but  Miss  Halstead  says  it  is 
very  comfortable  and  pretty." 

"And  the  rent  ?" 


232        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS, 

"  I  told  yon,  if  you  remember,  that  we  were  to  take 
charge  of  the  house.  It  is  furnished,  and  they  must 
have  some  one.  There  is  no  question  of  rent  about  it." 

"  That  is  rather  strange.  Are  you  sure,  Anna,  that 
3!iss  Halstead  is  not  making  this  a  charity  in  dis 
guise  ?» 

"  It  may  be— I  cannot  tell ;  but  one  thing  I  do  know, 
if  charity  could  be  sweet  from  any  one,  that  dear  young 
lady  would  make  it  so.  She  is  good  and  lovely  as  an 
angel !" 

"She  is,  indeed.'7 

"And  you  will  accept  this  offer,  grandmother  ?" 

"  It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,  Anna,  But  if  we  can 
take  a  more  comfortable  house  on  such  terms,  it  would 
be  wrong  to  refuse  it.  For  many  reasons,  dear,  I  should 
be  glad  to  get  you  out  of  this  place." 

"And  I  shall  be  so  glad  to  move.  It  seems  as  if  I 
could  not  breathe  here.  Put  on  your  shawl,  grand 
mother,  and  let  us  go  look  at  the  house.  It  is  not  so 
very  far  away." 

"  How  impatient  you  are,  Anna.  We  will  look  at 
the  house,  and  I  will  get  ready  ;  but  as  for  moving,  we 
must  give  the  landlady  notice — she  has  been  very  kind 
to  us." 

"  So  she  has,  grandmother,  I  had  forgotten  her.  In 
deed,  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  forget  every  thing  but 
nv^self.  Of  course,  the  boys  must  be  consulted." 

"  They  must,  at  least,  be  informed." 

"  Oh  !  how  I  wish  it  could  be  done  at  once  ;  but  if 
that  is  impossible,  we  can,  at  least,  go  and  see  this  new 
house." 

The  old  lady  put  on  a  neat  crape  bonnet  which  Anna 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        233 

had  made  for  her,  and  covered  the  darns  in  her  dress 
with  an  old  black  shawl,  good  in  its  time,  but  worn  thin 
as  muslin  in  places.  She  looked  neat,  and  like  a  perfect 
gentlewoman  ;  and  would  have  appeared  so  in  any  dress, 
for  with  her,  innate  refinement  was  independent  of  cos 
tume. 

Anna  had  been  sitting  in  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  for 
she  had  taken  a  long  walk  after  her  interview  with  Jo 
seph,  which  ended  in  that  call  on  Miss  Halstead,  during 
which  the  business  of  the  house  had  been  settled. 
Georgiana  had  received  her  with  more  than  kindness. 
There  was  something  shy  and  tender  in  her  manner 
inexpressibly  touching.  It  seemed  as  if  she  were  ac 
cepting  a  favor,  rather  than  conferring  one,  when  a 
second  offer  of  the  house  was  made.  Old  Mrs.  Halstead 
had  been  called  in  to  the  conference,  and  seemed  de 
lighted  at  the  prospect  of  securing  such  unexceptiona 
ble  inmates  for  her  house. 

"  It  is  a  little  box  of  a  place  in  the  edge  of  the  town, 
so  small  that  I  find  it  difficult  to  obtain  a  tenant  that 
suits  me.  Besides,  I  may  sometimes  wish  to  live  in  it 
myself." 

"You!  grandmamma?"  exclaimed  Georgiana. 

"  Yes.  When  my  pretty  grandchild  here  gets  tired 
of  petting  me,  or  loves  some  other  person  enough  to 
leave  me." 

"That  I  never  shall — never!"  answered  Georgie. 
"  Now  it  is  impossible." 

The  old  lady  laid  a  hand  on  her  j^oung  head  with  a 
queenly  sort  of  tenderness,  and  said,  "  Hush,  child, 
hush !  I  do  not  like  to  hear  3^011  talk  in  this  way." 

"What!  do  you  want  me  to  leave  you?"  answered 


234        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Georgie,  rallying  her  sprightliness ;  "  that  is  very 
unkind,  grandmamma." 

There  was  something  sad  and  a  little  out  of  the  com 
mon  way  here,  which  Anna  did  not  understand.  Was 
it  possible  that  this  beautiful  young  creature,  living  in 
the  very  lap  of  wealth,  could  have  her  anxieties  and 
feel  the  heartache  as  she  did  ?  The  thought  made  her 
look  on  Georgie  with  more  interest ;  a  growing  sympa 
thy  was  fast  springing  up  between  these  two  girls,  so 
far  apart  in  the  social  strata,  but  so  close  together  in 
that  refinement  of  heart  and  mind  which  makes  high 
natures  kin. 

"  If  you  can  go  to-day,"  said  Georgie,  "  I  will  meet 
you  at  the  house  and  do  the  honors." 

So  it  was  arranged  ;  and  Anna  went  home,  brightened 
a  little  by  this  change  in  her  existence,  to  consult  her 
grandmother,  and  prepare  for  the  appointment  she  had 
made. 

Mrs.  Burns  entered  a  street-car  and  sat  down  by  Anna, 
pleased  with  an  event  that  had  drawn  her  from  the 
eternal  sameness  of  her  garret  home.  She  was  a  mild, 
sweet-faced  old  lady,  for  whom  even  the  rude  j  ostlers 
of  a  street-car  made  room  reverently.  So  she  enjoyed 
her  ride,  and  thanked  God  in  her  heart  that  Anna 
would  soon  be  under  a  shelter  where  no  bad,  rude  man 
would  dare  to  force  himself  upon  her.  The  advent  of 
Mr.  Ward  into  what  had  been  to  them  always  a  safe 
and  peaceful  dwelling,  had  distressed  the  old  lady  more 
than  her  grandchildren  had  dreamed  of.  She  had  seen 
enough  of  the  world  in  her  lifetime  to  understand  that 
to  be  domesticated  with  a  young  man,  from  any  grade 
in  society,  would  bring  reproach  of  some  kind  on  her 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         235 

child.  The  cars  stopped,  and  after  walking  a  single 
block,  these  two  women  found  themselves  in  front  of  an 
opening  or  park,  encircled  by  a  double  crescent  of  small 
three-story  cottages,  with  verandahs  of  light  wood-work 
running  along  each  story,  all  woven  and  draped  with 
climbing  roses,  honeysuckles,  and  Virginia  creepers. 
In  fact,  the  front  of  these  houses  was  one  lattice-work 
of  flowers  ;  and  all  the  open  ground  inclosed  in  the  two 
crescents  was  broken  up  with  guilder-roses,  lilacs,  spiras, 
and  a  world  of  roses  growing  in  rich  masses,  if  not 
always  rare,  exceedingly  beautiful. 

A  street  ran  between  the  two  crescents  lined  with 
tall  trees,  which,  here  and  there,  tangled  their  branches 
over  it.  In  the  grounds,  too,  were  weeping-willows, 
the  paper-mulberry,  and  alanthus  trees,  drooping  under 
the  weight  of  great  clusters  of  vividly  red  fruit. 

The  old  lady  uttered  an  exclamation,  half  delight, 
half  surprise.  Was  it  possible?  Could  she  again 
gather  her  son's  children  about  her  in  a  place  like  that  ? 
To  Anna  it  seemed  a  little  paradise.  The  very  breath 
stopped  on  her  lips  as  she  paused  to  gaze  upon  it. 
"There  must  be  some  mistake,"  she  said.  "  The  num 
ber  was  on  one  of  those  gates,  truly  ;  but  it  could  not 
be."  She  stood  before  one  of  the  rustic  gates  which 
opened  to  a  house  in  the  very  deepest  curve  of  one  of 
the  crescents,  bewildered  and  uncertain. 

"Do  not  attempt  to  open  it,"  said  the  old  lady,  re 
straining  her  granddaughter's  hand  as  she  was  about 
to  unlatch  the  gate.  "  It  cannot  be  here  we  are  to  live." 

Poor  old  soul !  She  had  lived  so  long  in  the  close 
rooms  of  that  tenement-building,  that  these  houses,  very 
simple  and  unpretending  if  divested  of  their  grounds 


236        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

and  flowers,  seemed  far  too  magnificent  for  her  aspira 
tions. 

"Let  us  go  on,"  she  said,  "and  search  out  the  real 
house ;  this  place  is  as  lovely  as  paradise,  but  it  is  not 
for  us.  I  wish  you  had  not  come  this  way,  Anna,  it 
will  make  you  dissatisfied  with  the  reality." 

"  Look,  grandmother,  look !  It  is  the  very  house. 
There  is  Miss  Halstead  in  the  door ;  you  can  scarcely 
see  her  for  the  honeysuckles — but  I  should  know  her 
face  anywhere.  She  is  coming  forward,  and  looks  so 
pleased.  Come,  grandmother." 

Through  the  gate  they  went,  and  along  the  broad 
path  lined  with  flowers  on  either  hand.  A  rustic  chair 
stood  in  the  lower  verandah,  close  by  an  open  French 
window,  which  led  into  a  pretty  little  parlor  connected 
by  folding  doors,  always  kept  open,  with  one  of  the 
cosiest  little  rooms  you  ever  saw.  This  room  was  just 
large  enough  to  hold  a  small  couch,  an  easy-chair,  a 
stand  for  flowers,  and  some  books — -just  what  it  did 
contain.  Mrs.  Burns  sat  down  in  the  rustic  chair,  and 
drop  after  drop  trembled  up  into  her  dear  old  eyes. 
Was  this  to  be  her  home,  even  for  a  short  season? 
Would  her  children  breathe  the  odor  of  these  flowers, 
and  sleep  in  those  neat  rooms  ?  She  could  not  realize 
it.  Our  readers  know  how  this  sweet,  old  creature  had 
bent  and  yielded  to  what  was  inevitable  in  adversity 
without  a  murmur,  and  without  shedding  a  single  tear : 
but  she  was  childlike  with  gratitude  now,  and  the  tears 
began  to  steal  down  her  withered  cheek  in  slow  drops 
of  happiness. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand  to  Geor- 
giana  Halstead,  "  come  here  and  let  the  old  woman  kiss 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        237 

you,  she  is  getting  to  be  a  child  again;  but  a  happy,  very 
happy  child.  Are  we,  indeed,  to  live  here  ?" 

"  If  you  will,  dear  madam,  my  grandmother  wishes 
it;  but  she  makes  one  condition." 

"  What  is  that  ?     I  am  sure  it.  will  not  be  a  hard  one." 

"  Not  very,  I  hope.  While  you  stay  in  the  house,  you 
and  your  family  must  occupy  it  entirely.  Your  own 
furniture  can  be  brought  in,  but  you  will  find  the  house 
tolerable  without  that.  She  wishes  no  reserve  as  to 
room  or  furniture.  Take  possession  when  you  please — 
the  sooner  the  better;  that  is  all  the  condition  my 
grandmother  makes." 

"  Your  grandmother  is  a  kind  woman,  and  I  thank 
her — that  is  all  we  can  do.  We  are  poor  in  every  thing 
but  this  gratitude,  which  is  very  sweet  to  feel." 

"  Let  us  see  the  house.  It  was  pretty  as  a  bird's-nest 
when  I  was  here  months  ago.  How  fortunate  it  is  that 
grandmamma  did  not  wish  to  let  it.  Come  up  stairs,  you 
will  find  a  very  pretty  sitting-room  there,  one  of  the 
most  breezy,  cheerful  places  you  ever  saw.  Your  bed 
chamber,  Mrs.  Burns,  opens  into  that.  Anna's  will  be 
on  the  third  story.  I  have  arranged  it  all.  Come  and 
see." 

Up  stairs  they  went,  into  a  room  which  Georgie  had 
described  well  as  cheerful  and  breezy,  for  the  two  sash- 
windows  were  open,  and  the  whole  chamber  was  swept 
with  perfumed  air  as  they  entered  it.  Two  good-sized 
book-cases  were  in  this  room,  filled  with  pleasant  reading. 
The  furniture  was  all  excellent,  but  unpretending.  Two 
or  three  engravings  hung  on  the  walls;  and  one  of 
Wheeler  &  Wilson's  sewing-machines  stood  in  a  rose 
wood  case  in  one  corner.  In  the  balcony,  which  seemed 


238        THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

like  a  little  room — it  was  so  festooned  with  vines — were 
some  rustic  chairs,  and  a  bird-cage,  in  which  birds  were 
chirping. 

"  This  is  my  little  present,"  said  Georgie,  promptly, 
remarking  the  old  lady's  look  of  surprise.  "  Here  is  a 
rocking-chair,  which  grandmamma  sent  from  her  own 
room.  No  one  is  to  sit  in  that  but  Mrs.  Burns,  remem 
ber.  Now  take  a  peep  in  here ;  comfortable,  I  think." 

She  opened  the  bedroom  door  and  revealed  a  low- 
bed,  white  as  snow,  but  simple  as  a  bed  well  could  be ; 
an  easy-chair,  covered  with  white  dimity,  stood  near  it, 
and  every  thing  that  an  old  person  could  require  for 
comfort  or  convenience  was  there.  Something  more 
than  the  common  furniture  of  a  house  had  certainly 
been  added  here.  Georgiana  accounted  for  this  frankly 
enough. 

"  Grandmamma,"  she  said,  "  had  more  of  these  things 
than  she  knew  how  to  use,  and  would  send  them.  She 
does  so  like  to  make  every  thing  complete. 

Old  Mrs.  Burns  had  not  been  known  to  smile  so  fre 
quently  as  she  did  that  day  for  years.  There  was  an 
absolute  glow  on  her  face  all  the  time  she  stayed  in  that 
cottage.  She  felt  intuitively  that  some  great  kindness 
was  intended,  but  it  gave  her  no  pain — generous  persons 
can  receive  favors  without  annoyance ;  the  very  qualities 
which  induce  them  to  give  freely  enable  them  to  receive 
gracefully.  Here  that  good  old  lady  had  a  double 
pleasure,  that  of  occupying  a  pleasant  home,  and  the 
intense  gratitude  which  came  out  of  it,  which  was  ex 
quisite  happiness  in  itself. 

"  Tell  3'our  grandmother  that  her  kindness  has  made 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        239 

an  old  woman  hopeful  again.  For  my  own  sake,  and 
in  behalf  of  my  dear  children,  I  thank  her." 

They  stood  by  the  gate  looking  back  upon  the  grounds 
when  Mrs.  Burns  said  this.  Anna  was  a  little  apart, 
silent,  and  with  a  dreamy  sadness  in  her  eyes.  She  had 
said  little  while  examining  the  house.  What  could  a 
change  of  place  do  for  her  ?  Indeed,  I  think  the  old 
rooms  under  the  roof  of  that  tenement  house  was  dearer 
to  her  than  those  open  balconies,  and  all  the  flowers 
that  draped  them,  for  there  he  had  held  her  hand  quietly 
in  his.  There  he  had  "  looked,  though  he  was  seldom 
talking  of  love."  She  was  glad  for  her  grandmother's 
sake,  and  pleased  that  the  boys,  who  worked  so  hard 
an4  were  so  good,  would  be  for  a  time,  at  least,  made 
more  comfortable.  As  for  herself,  poor  girl,  her  life 
was  broken  up.  But  for  those  dear  ones  she  would  have 
been  glad  to  die,  had  God  so  willed  it. 

Georgiana  Halstead  did  not  understand  this.  She 
knew  nothing  of  Anna's  interview  with  Mrs.  Savage ; 
and  deeming  her  possessed  of  a  love  for  which  she 
would  have  given  so  much,  was  both  surprised  and  dis 
appointed  at  a  coldness  which  to  her  seemed  want  of 
feeling.  In  the  exaltation  of  a  most  generous  nature, 
she  had  found  relief  in  carrying  out  the  promise  she 
had  given  Horace  Savage ;  but  she  had  expected  more 
enthusiasm,  more  demonstrative  happiness,  from  a  girl 
who  had  darkened  her  own  life  in  attaining  the  love 
which'  was  so  ready  to  lift  her  out  of  all  that  was  dis 
agreeable  in  her  life. 

Georgiana  went  home  with  Mrs.  Burns.  She  was  not 
the  girl  to  make  half  sacrifices,  and  thought  that,  per 
haps,  her  help  or  counsel  might  be  of  use.  She  would 


240        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

not  be  saddened  by  Anna's  silence,  or  disheartened  in 
any  way.  Horace  had  asked  her  to  befriend  these  peo 
ple,  and  she  would  oblige  him  whether  they  wished  it 
or  not. 

Yery  much  to  the  surprise  of  Mrs.  Burns  and  her 
visitor,  Robert  had  reached  home  earlier  than  usual, 
and  was  sitting  in  the  room  with  young  Mr.  Gould,  who 
had  just  returned  from  Ward's  room,  where  a  fiery 
scene  had  passed  between  him  and  his  old  friend.  That 
morning  Robert  had  appealed  to  the  nephew  of  his  em 
ployer  with  frank  earnestness,  and  besought  him  to  get 
the  young  man  away  from  that  house.  He  told  Gould 
how  cruelly  his  presence  annoyed  sister  Anna,  and 
added  that  the  grandmother  had  appealed  to  him  in 
vain. 

Gould  was  terribly  angry  when  he  learned  how  meanly 
Ward  had  seized  upon  his  reckless  hint  to  persecute  a 
helpless  girl.  Every  generous  impulse  of  his  nature 
rose  up  in  repudiation  of  an  act  so  base.  Scarcely  had 
Robert  told  his  story,  when  Gould  seized  his  hat  and 
stood  read}',  so  far  as  lay  in  his  power,  to  correct  the 
evil  his  own  rash  folly  had  instigated.  His  transient 
fancy  for  Robert's  sister  had  vanished  long  ago,  and  he 
felt  responsible  for  an  act  which  might  injure  her,  and 
certainly  debased  the  man  he  had  once  considered  as 
his  friend. 

I  have  said  there  was  a  stormy  scene  in  Ward's  room 
within  ten  minutes  after  Gould  entered  the  house.  We 
do  not  care  to  give  the  particulars,  as  it  was  enacted  at 
the  very  time  Mrs.  Burns  was  going  over  her  new 
house — a  much  pleasanter  subject.  But  the  result  was, 
that  an  hour  after  young  Ward  gave  up  his  key  to  the 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        241 

landlady,  and  hurried  out  of  the  house  with  a  portman 
teau  in  his  hand,  looking  greatly  flurried,  and  as  mean 
as  an  exquisite  dandy  could  well  look. 

Gould  went  up  stairs  with  Robert,  resolved  to  set  the 
old  lady  and  her  charge  at  rest  for  the  future  ;  and,  if 
it  could  be  done,  offer  them  such  help  as  might  atone 
for  the  trouble  he  had  unwittingly  occasioned  them. 
He  had  been  angry,  or  at  least  excited  with  generous 
indignation ;  and  his  very  handsome  face  was  lighted 
up  into  something  more  striking  than  mere  color  or 
form.  He  really  was  splendid  while  moving  up  and 
down  that  little  room,  his  face  bright  with  noble  feel 
ing,  and  his  step  lithe  as  the  movements  of  a  panther. 

Gould  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  when  the  young 
girls  came  in.  I  think  at  that  particular  moment  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  find  a  more  noble-looking  fel 
low.  Anna  started  and  turned  crimson.  She  recog 
nized  him  at  once  as  the  Bois  Guilbert  of  that  Waverly 
tableau  that  had  terminated  so  disastrously.  Georgie, 
too,  remembered  him,  and  blushed  in  company  with  her 
friend. 

"My  dear  madam,"  said  the  young  man,  addressing 
Mrs.  Burns,  "  I  beg  ten  thousand  pardons  for  this  intru 
sion  ;  and  as  many  more  that  any  person  I  have  ever 
known  should  have  been  its  cause.  My  friend  Robert 
here — a  boy  to  be  proud  of,  madam — informed  me  of 
the  distress  Ward  had  thrown  you  into,  and  I  came  up 
at  once 'to  turn  him  out.  He  is  gone;  I  saw  him  into 
the  street  myself.  You  need  have  no  further  uneasiness 
on  his  account." 

"  You  are  very  good,  very  kind,"  answered  the  old 
lady,  thanking  him  with  her  eyes  all  the  time  she  was 
15 


242         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

speaking.  "It  would  have  been  a  great  service,  and  is ; 
but  we  are  going  to  move." 

"  What !  has  the  scoundrel  really  driven  you  out  ?" 

"  No,  not  altogether  that.  We  have  found  friends," 
said  Mrs.  Burns,  looking  significantly  at  Georgiana. 

"  I  am  heartily  glad  of  that.  Miss  Halstead,  I  have 
already  had  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction.  I  could 
hardly  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  forgive  any  one 
else  for  preceding  me.  But  my  uncle  and  I  will  settle 
our  share  with  my  young  friend  Robert." 

"  Robert,"  whispered  Mrs.  Burns,  who  seemed  to  be 
trembling  all  over,  "  who  is  this  young  gentleman  ?" 

"Hush,  grandmother!  it  is  only  young  Mr.  Gould." 

The  old  woman  dropped  into  a  chair,  and,  clasping 
her  hands  together,  forced  herself  to  sit  still. 

"  I  will  go  now,"  said  Georgie,  seeing  that  nothing 
could  be  done.  "  To-morrow  I  will  come  again,  and 
we  will  arrange  things.  Robert,  are  you  very  tired  ? 
It  is  getting  a  little  dark,  I  think." 

Robert  got  up  and  took  his  hat  from  the  table ;  but 
young  Gould  took  it  gently  from  his  hand  and  laid  it 
back  again.  "  I  am  going  by  Miss  Halstead 's  residence. 
Will  she  permit  me  to  escort  her  ?" 

Georgie  smiled,  twisted  the  elastic  around  her  lace 
parasol,  as  if  it  was  of  no  further  use,  and  prepared  to  go. 
That  splendid  young  fellow,  with  eyes  so  soft,  and  yet 
so  bright,  was  no  mean  escort  for  any  girl — and 
Georgiana  was  quite  conscious  of  the  fact.  Indeed,  of 
the  two,  she  could  not  but  confess  he  was  taller  and 
finer-looking  than  Savage.  That  was  why  he  had  been 
selected  to  represent  the  magnificent  Templar. 

So  Georgie  went  home,  accompanied  by  Mr.  Gould, 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        243 

with  her  pretty  gloved-hand  resting  on  his  arm  lightly 
as  a  bird  touches  the  branch  it  nests  on,  yet  sending  the 
pleasantest  sort  of  a  sensation  through  that  arm,  and 
into  the  impetuous  heart  close  by.  If  Georgie  was  con 
scious  of  the  mischief  she  was  doing,  the  pretty  rogue 
gave  no  sign,  unless  a  little  heavier  weight  upon  the 
arm  might  have  been  deemed  such ;  but  upon  the  steps 
of  her  father's  mansion  she  paused,  after  ascending 
just  far  enough  to  bring  her  face  on  a  level  with  his, 
and  such  a  warm,  rosy  smile  met  him  that  he  longed  to 
kiss  her  then  and  there,  as  an  excuse  for  going  into  that 
house  and  demanding  her  on  the  instant  of  her  father. 
Gould  had  seen  that  provokingly  handsome  creature 
many  a  time  without  any  such  feelings,  and  asked  him 
self,  with  supreme  contempt,  what  he  had  been  about 
never  to  fall  in  love  with  her  before. 

"May  you  call?"  said  Georgie,  putting  the  tip  of  her 
parasol  up  to  her  mouth,  and  turning  her  head  on  one 
side,  as  if  she  were  brooding  over  the  subject,  "  Yes,  cer 
tainly,  if  you  have  any  business  with  papa — I  think  he 
does  that  sort  of  thing  with  your  house  sometimes ;  or 
if  you  have  taken  a  fancy  to  know  grandmamma.  She's 
an  old  lady  worth  knowing,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  If  you  permit  me,  I  certainly  shall  have  business 
with  your  father,"  answered  Gould,  with  a  bright  smile  ; 
"  and  am  so  anxious  to  see  this  fine  old  lady,  that  to 
morrow,  at  the  furthest,  I  shall  claim  that  privilege." 

"  I  dare  say  she  will  be  glad  to  see  you.  If  she 
should  be  indisposed,  there  is  Aunt  Eliza — you  have 
seen  Aunt  Eliza  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  certainly  !  I  have  seen  her,  and  shall  bo 
delighted  to  resume  the  acquaintance." 


244         THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPHANS. 

"Well,  that  being  settled,  good-night!" 

Gould  lifted  his  hat,  and  went  away.  Georgie  ran  up 
the  steps,  smiling  like  a  June  morning.  The  door  was 
opened,  and  §he  glided  through  singing  in  a  low,  happy 
voice,  "  Spring  is  coming !  Spring  is  coming !"  when  a 
voice  called  to  her  from  over  the  banisters.  Miss  Eliza 
spent  half  her  natural  life  leaning  over  those  banisters — 
and  she  was  there,  as  usual,  keeping  guard. 

"Who  was.  it?  Who  was  it  you  were  talking  to, 
Georgiana  ?"  she  called  out.  "  I  heard  a  man's  voice. 
I  will  take  my  oath  I  heard  a  man's  voice." 

"It  was  Mr.  Gould,"  answered  Georgie,  breaking  off 
her  song. 

"Mr.  Gould?  What,  the  young  gentleman  who  was 
on  his  knees  to  that  vile  girl  in  the  tableau  ?  You  don't 
mean  to  say  it  was  him  ?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"Where  did  you  meet  him,  Georgie,  dear?  Tell  me 
all  about  it,  that's  a  sweet  angel !" 

"  I  met  him  at  Mrs.  Burns',  Aunt  Eliza." 

"What  I  in  that  garret?  Is  he  bewitched  by  that 
creature,  too  ?  I  can't  believe  it!" 

"  I  don't  know  about  his  being  bewitched,  but  he  cer 
tainly  was  in  Mrs.  Burns'  room  when  we  got  there." 

"  We  !  Georgiana.     Who  are  you  talking  about  ?" 

"  Old  Mrs.  Burns,  Anna,  and  myself.  We  had  been 
up  town  on  a  little  business,  and " 

"  Georgiana  Halstead,  have  3^011  been  in  the  street 
with  those  low  people  ?" 

"Yes,  if  you  will  call  them  so." 

"  Without  my  permission  ?" 

"  I  had  that  of  grandmamma." 


THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.        245 

"My  mother  is  an  old My  mother  does  not 

know  what  she  is  about.  I  must  inform  her." 

"  She  is  well  informed,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"  I  will  make  sure  of  that.  But  Mr.  Gould — did  he 
inquire  for  me  ?" 

"He  spoke  of  you,  certainly." 

"What  did  he  say?  Come  up  here  this  minute,  and 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  He  said  that  he  had  been  introduced  to  you,  and 
should  like  to  renew  the  acquaintance." 

"Yes,  yes  !  I  dare  say  he  would!  I  saw  clearly  that 
he  was  watching  my  Horace  that  night  like  a  lynx,  so 
jealous  that  he  could  not  conceal  it,  because  he  escorted 
me  to  the  carriage.  So  he  has  manifested  himself  at 
last.  Too  late  !  Too  late  !" 

"He  spoke  of  calling  to-morrow,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"  Indeed  !  That  is  serious.  I  will  receive  him  cour 
teously,  of  course,  and  with  tender  dignity.  If  there  is 
any  time  when  a  lady  should  be  considerate,  it  is  when 
she  is  compelled  to  suppress  the  love  she  has  inspired. 
Do  not  look  at  me,  niece ;  I  shall  find  myself  equal  to 
the  occasion,  depend  on  that.  But,  after  visiting  that 
creature,  he  cannot  expect  the  reception  I  might  other 
wise  have  given  him." 

"Where  is  grandmamma,"  Aunt  Eliza?" 

"  In  her  room.  Go  to  her,  child,  and  confess  every 
thing.  She  is  kind,  she  is  benevolent.  Have  no  fear 
to  approach  her ;  she  may  not  possess  my  bland  manner 
— but  that  is  the  fault  of  early  education.  She  is  a 
trustworthy  person,  and  deserves  to  be  treated  well." 

"Afraid  to  approach  my  darling  old  grandmamma, 
who  knows  so  much  more  than  all  of  us  put  together, 


246         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

and  is  worth  a  thousand  people,  if  we  count  the  heart 
for  any  thing.  Dear  me !  what  a  precious  old  goose 
Aunt  Eliza  is.  Ha !  she  is  leaning  over  the  banister 
again.  I  hope  she  didn't  hear  me." 

"  Georgiana  I" 

"  Well,  Aunt  Eliza." 

"At  what  hour  did  Mr.  Gould  speak  of  calling?" 

"  He  did  not  appoint  any  special  time." 

"  Well,  it  does  not  matter,  one  can  dress  early,  and 
the  pleasures  of  anticipation  are  so  exquisitely  sweet, 
that  I  shall  quite  revel  in  them,"  muttered  Miss  Eliza 
to  herself.  "  I  only  wanted  this  to  bring  that  proud 
man  to  his  knees.  Let  him  fear  to  lose  me  once,  and 
we  shall  have  an  interesting  crisis ;  depend  on  that, 
Eliza  Halstead." 

Once  more  the  banisters  were  left  to  their  own  sup 
port,  and  Miss  Eliza  retired  into  the  place  she  called 
her  boudoir,  while  Georgie  went  to  her  grandmother, 
and  told  her  all  that  had  passed.  When  Georgie  spoke 
of  Mr.  Gould,  the  old  lady  seemed  unusually  disturbed, 
and  asked  a  good  many  questions  with  singular  inter 
est,  but  said  nothing  against  his  coming,  and  smiled  a 
little,  as  nice  old  ladies  will  when  they  watch  the  work 
ings  of  a  young  girl's  heart  in  her  innocent  speech. 
From  that  night  Mrs.  Halstead  was  less  anxious  about 
the  heavy  eyes  and  pale  cheeks  of  her  pet.  In  fact,  it 
was  not  long  before  her  cheeks  wore  the  flush  of  wild 

roses,  and  her  eyes Well,  it  is  of  no  use  describing 

Georgie 's  eyes  when  she  was  happy — they  were  too 
lovely  for  comparison. 

It  had  been  a  chilly  day,  which  made  fires  pleasant, 
when  Savage  had  that  interview  in  the  old  maid's  f  oom } 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        247 

but  the  weather  was  deliciously  pleasant  now,  and  Miss 
Eliza  came  out  in  white  muslin  and  blue  ribbons,  radiant 
with  expectation4  from  breakfast  time  till  noon,  and  from 
noon  till  evening.  Then  Mr.  Gould  came,  and,  accord 
ing  to  her  own  private  instructions,  was  taken  up  to  her 
room,  where  the  Cupid  was  quivering  over  a  basket  of 
real  flowers,  and  Miss  Eliza  sat  in  position,  with  her 
foot  on  the  ottoman,  and  some  innocent  white  flowers 
in  her  hair. 

Gould  was  not  quite  so  much  pre-occupied  as  Savage 
had  been,  so  he  fell  into  the  lady's  humor,  complimented 
her  till  she  fluttered  like  a  bird  of  paradise  ou  its  nest, 
and  began  to  think  seriously  of  spurning  young  Savage 
from  the  feet  to  which  he  was  expected  to  fall.  After 
awhile  Gould  adroitly  brought  the  conversation  round 
to  the  lady's  mother,  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to 
know  intimately  any  person  connected  with  a  person  he 
had  admired  so  long.  This  desire  was  so  promising 
that  Eliza  took  Gould  into  the  family  sitting-room, 
where  Mrs.  Halstead  sat  with  her  beautiful  grandchild. 

In  this  fashion  Gould  introduced  himself  into  the 
family,  where  he  soon  became  intimate  as  a  son. 

It  was  after  this  bold  step  that  the  roses  came  back 
to  Georgie's  face  ;  and  the  young  creature  began  to  sing 
again,  like  a  bird  that  some  great  storm  has  silenced  for 
a  time.  The  old  lady  smiled  on  all  this,  but  at  times 
she  would  fix  her  eyes,  with  strange  anxiety,  on  the 
young,  man's  face,  as  if  her  thoughts  were  afar  off,  and 
troubled  with  bitter  memories. 

As  for  Miss  Eliza,  it  was  very  difficult  to  sweep  an 
illusion  from  her  brain.  Intense  vanity  like  hers  is  not 
easily  warned. 


248          THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS. 
CHAPTER   XIX. 

A   DECLARATION    OF   LOVE. 

THE  night  that  Gould  went  home  with  Miss  Halsteacl, 
Savage  presented  himself  in  the  tenement-house,  re 
solved  to  come  to  an  explanation  with  Anna,  and  be 
guided  by  the  result.  The  boys  had  gone  out  on  some 
errand,  and  old  Mrs.  Burns  had  just  stepped  down 
stairs  to  give  their  landlady  notice  of  the  removal ;  so, 
for  once,  Anna  was  alone.  She  heard  the  step  on  the 
stairs,  and  started  up  like  a  frightened  fawn  ready  for 
flight.  But  there  was  no  place  to  flee  to,  except  the 
little  bedroom,  and  that  was  so  close  to  the  room  that 
he  might  hear  her  breathe — for  she  was  even  then  pant 
ing  with  affright.  What  could  she  say  to  him  ?  Had 
he  really  thought  that  Ward  was  staying  there  with  her 
consent  ?  He  had  reached  the  last  flight  of  steps,  when 
she  remembered,  with  a  pang,  her  promise  to  Mrs.  Sav 
age,  "  never,  if  she  could  help  it,  to  see  him  again." 

Stung  by  this  thought,  she  sprang  for  the  bedroom  ; 
but  the  doors  of  that  house  did  not  move  with  patent 
springs  ;  this  one  dragged  against  the  floor,  and,  before 
she  could  clos&  it,  Savage  was  in  the  ante-room.  Was 
she  glad  or  sorry  that  the  possibility  of  avoiding  him 
had  escaped  her  ?  The  tumult  in  her  heart  would  have 
forbidden  an  answer  to  this  question  had  her  conscience 
been  able  to  force  it  upon  her. 

He  was  in  the  room,  his  eyes  caught  hers  as  her  hand 
dropped  from  the  door,  and  she  stood  on  the  threshold, 
gazing  wildly  at  him  like  an  antelope  frightened  in  its 
lair. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        249 

"Anna,"  he  said,  yielding  to  a  sudden  "rush  of  ten 
derness  which  swelled  in  his  heart  at  the  very  sight  of 
her ;  "  Anna,  was  it  from  me  you  were  striving  to 
escape?" 

She  stood  where  he  had  first  seen  her,  with  drooping 
eyes  and  a  cheek  of  ashes. 

"Anna,  speak  to  me." 

She  looked  up  with  such  agony  on  her  face,  that  the 
very  sight  of  it  made  him  recoil  a  step  backward. 

"Anna,  my  poor,  dear  girl,  what  is  this  that  has  come 
between  us  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Ask — ask No,  you  must  not  ask 

any  one.  You  and  I  must  never  speak  to  each  other 
again — never  !  never  !  never  !" 

The  voice  broke  off*  in  a  faint  wail,  so  full  of  pain,  that 
it  made  the  young  man  shiver. 

"But  we  can  and  will  speak  together.  Who  shall 
prevent  it  ?" 

"  I  must." 

"  You,  Anna  ?  This  is  madness.  Some  trouble  has 
driven  you  wild." 

"  No,  I  am  not  wild,  nor  wicked  enough  to  break  a 
sacred  promise." 

"A  sacred  promise  ?     Who  exacted  this  promise  ?" 

"  One  who  had  a  right  ?" 

"  One  who  had  a  right !  Who  on  earth  has  any  right 
over  you,  Anna  Burns  ?  Are  you  not  in  every  thing 
but  words  my  betrothed  wife  ?" 

"  I  was — I  was !"  cried  the  poor  girl,  wringing  her 
hands  in  piteous  distress.  "  But  every  thing  is  changed." 

A  flash  of  the  old  suspicion  came  over  Savage ;  he 


250-      THE    SOLDIEK'S    OKPHANS. 

strode  across  the  room,  and  seizing  Anna  by  the  wrist, 
drew  her  with  gentle  violence  through  the  door. 

"  Look  me  in  the  face,  Anna  Burns,  and  say,  if  you 
have  the  courage,  that  this  change  is  in  yourself." 

She  cast  a  piteous  look  into  his  face,  and  strove  to 
force  her  hand  from  his  grasp. 

"  Girl !  Girl !  Has  your  heart  become  so  false  that 
it  dares  not  look  through  your  eyes  ?" 

"It  is  breaking !  It  is  breaking  1"  she  cried,  des 
perately  yielding  her  feeble  strength  to  his. 

"  Breaking  ?     For  what — for  whom  ?" 

"You  wound  it  so.  Every  one  I  meet  gives  it  a 
blow." 

"  I  wound  it  ?  Girl !  Girl !  Two  days  ago  I  would 
have  died  to  save  you  an  hour's  pain !" 

"  But  now  you  hate,  you  despise  me !"  moaned  the 
poor  young  creature,  giving  him  one  look  that  went  to 
his  heart. 

"  Why  should  you  think  so,  Anna  ?  If  you  have  done 
nothing  to  earn  hate  or  contempt,  how  could  the  idea 
enter  your  heart  ?" 

"  I — I  cannot  tell.  I  can  tell  you  nothing,  Mr.  Sav 
age,  only  that  I  have  made  a  promise,  and  must  keep  it." 

Savage  grasped  her  hand  so  fiercely  that  it  pained  her. 

"  Girl,  answer  me.  Was  that  promise  made  to  Mr. 
Ward?" 

"Mr.  Ward?" 

Her  face  became  instantly  crimson  with  flashing 
blood. 

"  Mr.  Ward  ?     Who  told  you  ?     Who— who » 

She  remembered  her  second  promise  to  Mrs.  Savage 
in  time,  and  grew  coldly  white  again. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        251 

"  Those  who  know  him  to  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  you  told  me,  Anna.  If  you  could  only  know  how 
I  have  reproached  myself  for  believing  them." 

"  But  you  must  believe  them,"  she  said.     The  words 
fell  from  her  lips  sharp  and  cold,  like  hailstones  on  fro 
zen  snow.     She  shivered  under  his  eye,  and  made  another, 
wild  effort  to  release  herself.     But  he  held  her  in  an  iron 
grasp. 

"Anna,  do  you  love  that  man  ?" 

His  voice  was  low  and  hoarse ;  his  eyes  were  full  of 
passionate  pleading ;  all  his  pride  was  forgotten  then. 
He  was  a  man  pleading  for  the  very  life  of  his  love. 

"  Do  you  love  that  man  ?" 

"  Oh !  let  me  go !    I  pray  of  you  let  me  go !" 

"Not  till  you  answer  me,  Anna." 

"  What  was  it  you  asked  me  to  say  ?"  she  faltered, 
humbly. 

"  I  asked  if  you  loved  that  man  Ward  ?" 

"  I  could  not  answer  that  question.  I — I  wonder 
how  you  can  ask  it." 

"  Another,  then — and  for  mercy's  sake,  be  frank. 
Have  you  ceased  to  love  me  ?  Anna,  is  it  so  ?" 

Anna  would  not  tell  a  lie.  She  could  be  silent,  and 
so  keep  her  promise ;  but  to  say  that  she  did  not  love 
that  man,  when  every  thought  of  her  brain  and  pulse  of 
her  being  was  drawing  her  soul  into  his,  was  a  blasphe 
my  against  love  that  she  recoiled  from. 

"  Oh,  Anna  I  is  it  all  over  between  us  ?" 

She  began  to  weep ;  great  tears  broke  through  those 
drooping  eyelashes. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  mournfully.  "  It  is  all  over  between 
us." 


252        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"And  you  will  marry  that  man?" 

"  No !  No !     He  does  not  wish  it.     I— I " 

She  broke  off,  as  if  a  shot  had  penetrated  her  heart ; 
for  Savage  had  dropped  her  hand  with  a  gesture  of 
sweet  anguish,  as  only  a  proud  man  feels  when  the 
woman  he  loves  sinks  into  degradation.  Fortunately 
for  her  secret,  she  neither  understood  the  gesture,  or 
the  thought  that  made  him  turn  so  deadly  white.  She 
had  paused  suddenly,  because  the  words  on  her  lips 
were  about  to  betray  her.  The  next  words  that  Savage 
addressed  to  her  made  the  heart  in  her  bosom  thrill  and 
ache  as  it  had  never  done  before. 

"Anna,  listen.  I  am  going  now,  and  you  may  never 
hear  my  voice  again." 

A  sob  broke  on  her  white  lips.  She  drooped  before 
him,  white  and  still ;  but,  oh !  how  miserable !  ready  for 
the  last  killing  words. 

"  If — if  this  man  should  become  weary  of  you " 

"Weary  of  me?" 

There  was  pride  on  her  lip,  and  fire  in  her  eyes  now  ; 
but  this  only  revolted  Savage.  It  seemed  to  him  like 
the  confidence  of  a  vain  woman,  secure  in  her  unhappy 
position. 

"  This  may  happen,  Anna." 

"  No,  Mr.  Savage,  it  never  can." 

"  But  men  do  change  sometimes,"  he  answered  bit 
terly,  "  almost  as  readily  as  women.  When  this  time 
comes,  send  to  me.  I  shall  never,  of  my  own  will, 
speak  to  you  again  ;  but  while  I  have  a  dollar  you  shall 
never  want." 

Anna  was  weeping  bitterly  now.  She  strove  to  an 
swer  him,  but  her  throat  gave  forth  nothing  but  sobs. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        253 

"  Do  you  promise,  Anna,  if  any  thing  connected  with 
you  could  give  me  a  gleam  of  pleasure,  it  would  be  a 
certainty  that  you  would  send  to  me  in  your  trouble  or 
your  need  ?" 

"  I  will— I  will,"  she  cried  out. 

"  And  to  no  other  person  ?" 

"  To  you,  and  no  other." 

"Now,  farewell,  Anna." 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers  ;  she  pressed  her  lips  upon 
it  again  and  again,  covering  it  with  tears  and  passionate 
kisses. 

"  It  is  forever — it  is  forever !"  she  sobbed  in  despair. 
"  Do  not  hate  me.  Think  kindly  of  me  sometimes.  Tell 
your  mother " 

"  Tell  my  mother  what,  Anna  ?  She  will  be  sorry  to 
hear  this.  She  has  been  kind  to  you." 

"  Kind  I  Oh,  yes  !  very  kind."  There  was  bitterness 
in  her  heart,  and  it  broke  up  through  her  sobs. 

"  But  what  must  I  tell  her?" 

"Nothing." 

"  I  will  tell  her  nothing,"  he  answered  sadly. 

He  made  an  effort  to  take  away  his  hand,  but  it 
brought  a  cry  of  such  anguish  from  her  that  he  desisted, 
and  strove  to  soothe  her. 

"  And  after  what  you  have  told  me,  it  is  only  pain  to 
stay  near  you." 

"  I  know  it,"  she  said  ;  "  terrible  pain  !" 

They  were  both  silent  now.  She  still  clung  to  his 
hand,  but  was  growing  calmer.  The  storm  of  tears  was 
ending  in  short,  dry  s«bs  ;  and  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  him 
with  a  look  of  such  yearning  tenderness,  such  humble 
deprecation,  that  his  own  eyes  were  flooded. 


254        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"You  will  not  hate  me  ?"  she  said. 

"  No,  Anna.     Heaven  knows  that  is  not  in  my  power  I" 

"And  sometimes,  when  you  are  married  to  some 
lady " 

"  I  shall  not  marry  for  many  a  long  year,  Anna." 

"  There  is  Miss  Halstead  !" 

"Hush !     That  name  on  your  lips  wounds  me." 

"  You  will  marry  her  ?" 

"  Hush !»  he  said,  "  I  cannot  bear  that." 

"  And  when  you  are  happy,  sometimes  think  kindly 
of  the  poor  girl  who  is  not  so  very  bad." 

"  Anna,  I  shall  always  think  kindly  of  you.  God  for 
give  you  that  I  cannot  mingle  respect  with  kindness !" 

"  Then  you  think  I  have  done  very  wrong?" 

"  Yes ;  very,  very  wrong." 

11  Ah,  me !  How  can  I  help  it  ?  Which  way  shall  I 
turn  ?  It  is  hard  to  be  so  young,  with  only  a  dear  old 
grandmother  to  show  you  the  right  way." 

"  It  is  hard,  poor  child !" 

"  And  I  have  tried  to  do  my  best — indeed,  I  have." 

"  Tried  and  failed.     Unhappy  girl !" 

"  Yes,  I  am  an  unhappy  girl — so  unhappy  that  I  some 
times  think  there  never  was  a  creature  so  wretched. 
Then  I  must  not  let  her  see  it,  or  the  boys — they  have 
so  little  pleasure,  you  know ;  but  they  are  affectionate, 
and  will  find  me  out;  but  not  if  I  can  help  it." 

She  said  all  this  in  a  low,  dreary  voice,  that  would 
have  touched  a  heart  of  granite.  Savage  felt  his  resent 
ment,  his  pride  and  his  strength  giving  away.  He  would 
have  given  the  world  to  take  that  young  creature  in  his 
arms  and  weep  over  her.  But  it  could  not  be.  Her 
hands  had  fallen  away  from  his  unconsciously.  She  had 


THE   SOLDIEK'S   ORPHANS.        255 

covered  her  face  with  them.  Savage  turned  from  her 
and  softly  left  the  room ;  he  had  no  heart  to  attempt 
another  farewell. 

Anna  felt  the  silence,  and,  looking  up,  saw  that  he 
was  gone.  She  heard  his  footsteps  going  rapidly  down 
the  stairs.  Quick  as  thought  she  snatched  up  her 
bonnet  and  shawl.  She  would  not  part  with  him  so. 
If  the  whole  world  dropped  from  under  her  feet  she 
would  follow  him.  Down  the  stairs  she  went  like  a  lap 
wing,  wrapping  the  shawl  about  her  as  she  ran.  He 
walked  swiftly,  as  men  do  when  stung  to  quick  rnotitm 
by  pain.  She  soon  came  up  with  him ;  but  that  moment 
a  panic  of  shame  seized  her,  and  she  lagged  behind, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter  each  moment.  An  impulse 
of  self-preservation  had  sent  her  into  the  street.  She 
could  not  part  with  him  so.  That  proud  woman  had  no 
right  to  ask  it.  She  would  follow  him  home.  She  would 
demand  a  release  from  her  promise  from  that  haughty 
woman  in  his  presence,  and  tell  him  how  she  loathed 
that  man  Ward ;  that  a  thousand  thousand  worlds 
would  not  induce  her  to  marry  him.  How  could  he  be 
lieve  it  of  her,  even  though  she  told  it  herself? 

Wild  with  these  rash  thoughts,  she  would  have  called 
out  for  him  to  stop ;  but  she  was  panting  for  breath, 
and  no  sound  came  when  she  made  a  wild  effort  to  utter 
his  name. 

Then,  with  the  faintness,  came  other  thoughts.  His 
parents  never  would  consent  that  he  should  marry  her. 
It  would  be  ruin,  utter  ruin  to  him.  What  wild,  wicked 
thing  was  she  about  ?  After  resisting  her  own  love, 
and  his  unhappiness  so  bravely,  was  she  to  destroy  it 
all  and  ruin  him  because  of  that  awful  heartache  ?  But 


256         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

she  was  so  tired,  so  completely  worn  out.  A  few  mo 
ments  she  would  rest  on  that  door-step,  and  then  go 
home.  It  did  not  matter  much  what  became  of  her, 
since  he  had  gone,  believing  her  a  fickle,  heartless  girl, 
capable  of  marrying  that  creature.  No ;  it  was  of  very 
little  consequence,  for — for — for 

Unhappy  girl,  she  had  fallen  into  insensibility  on 
that  door-step,  and  there  she  lay  like  a  lost  lamb,  pale 
and  still. 

Anna  had  scarcely  rested  on  those  cold  stones  five 
minutes,  when  an  old  man  turned  from  the  street  and 
was  about  to  mount  the  steps.  He  saw  her  lying  there, 
with  the  light  from  a  street-lamp  blazing  on  her  fea 
tures.  They  were  so  white  that  he  thought  at  first  she 
must  be  dead.  Stooping  down,  he  found  that  she  had 
fainted,  and  rang  the  bell  violently.  A  servant  came 
out,  and  lifting  the  insensible  girl  between  them,  master 
and  man  bore  her  into  that  old-fashioned  family  man 
sion,  which  I  have  described  in  the  early  part  of  this 
story. 

They  laid  her  on  a  broad-seated  old  sofa  in  the  front 
room,  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  that  strange  old 
man  recognized  her  as  the  girl  he  had  seen  in  that 
poverty-stricken  home  picture.  He  had  been  a  voyage 
to  Europe  since  then,  but  those  delicate  features  were 
fresh  in  his  memory  yet. 

"  Bring  brandy,  wine,  every  thing  that  can  help  her 
out  of  this  cold  fit,"  he  said  to  the  servant.  "I  know 
the  girl,  and  will  take  charge  of  her  myself." 

The  wine  and  brandy  were  brought.  With  his  old 
hand  shaking  the  glass  unsteadily,  the  master  poured 
wine  through  those  white  lips.  It  was  a  simple  case  of 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        257 

exhaustion,  and  Anna  soon  felt  a  glow  of  life  diffusing 
itself  through  her  frame. 

"  Give  me  another  glass — not  the  brandy,  that  is  too 
strong ;  but  generous  wine  hurts  no  one.  Take  another 
drink,  child,  and  then  tell  me  all  about  it.  Remember, 
I  am  your  friend." 

"  Yes,"  said  Anna,  "  I  remember  you  were  very  good 
to  grandmother  and  the  children  once.  We  do  not 
forget  such  kindness." 

"  But  how  happens  it  that  you  are  here  ?"  inquired 
the  old  man,  smoothing  her  hair  with  his  hand. 
"  Come  out  on  an  errand,  I  suppose,  or  something  like 
that,  and  wilted  down  on  my  door-step.  Singular, 
wasn't  it  ?  Do  you  know  that  your  brother  is  in  my 
employ?  Found  the  place  out  for  himself;  didn't 
know  it  was  mine.  Mean  to  make  a  man  of  that  shaver, 
I  promise  you.  True  as  steel,  and  good  as  gold.  Now 
tell  me  all  about  yourself." 

"  Oh !  if  I  only  could,"  she  said,  looking  earnestly  in 
his  face. 

"  But  you  can.     Of  course,  you  can." 

"  Perhaps  you  might  help  me,"  she  said,  rising  to  her 
elbow.  "  Somehow  I  feel  as  if but  you  couldn't." 

"Who  knows  ?  I  have  helped  a  great  many  people  in 
my  lifetime." 

"  But  not  young  girls  like  me,  who  have  troubles  that 
money  cannot  cure." 

"  Little  lady,  permit  me  to  doubt  that." 

"  She  rose  higher  on  the  sofa-pillows,  and  looked  at 
him  with  her  great,  earnest  eyes. 

"  I  will  fancy  that  you  are  my  father,  and  tell  you 

every  thing,"  she  said. 
16 


258         THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Do,"  answered  the  old  man,  but  his  voice  shook  a 
little;  "do." 

Anna  told  him  every  thing,  even  to  her  love  for 
Horace  Savage,  for  the  old  man  helped  her  forward 
with  low  spoken  questions,  and  she  could  talk  to  him 
with  more  ease  than  if  it  had  been  her  grandmother, 
with  whom  she  was  just  a  little  shy  about  some  of  her 
feelings.  There  may  be  things  in  the  human  heart 
which  we  can  confide  to  strangers  more  easily  than  we 
can  explain  them  to  our  dearest  friends.  At  any  rate, 
Anna  opened  her  innocent,  young  heart  to  that  old 
man,  as  if  she  had  been  saying  her  prayers  before  God. 
With  him  she  felt  such  a  sense  of  protection  that  she 
smiled  in  his  face  more  than  once  through  her  tears. 

"Let  the  whole  thing  alone,  child.  Move  into  the 
new  house  as  soon  as  you  like,  and  wait  till  I  can  think 
every  thing  over.  But,  above  all  things,  get  a  little  sun 
shine  into  those  eyes;  you  shall  never  be  sorry  for 
having  trusted  the  old  man.  As  for  that  young  scamp, 
Ward,  Gould  shall  take  care  of  him.  But  where  do  you 
live  ?» 

Anna  gave  him  the  name  and  number  of  the  house. 
He  seemed  surprised. 

"  Why,  that  house  belongs  to  me ;  and  you  have  been 
paying  rent  in  it  all  the  time  to  this  good-hearted 
woman?  I  remember,  my  agent  said  that  he  had  a 
good  tenant  there.  I  wont  forget  that  the  woman  has 
been  kind  to  you  and  your  grandmother." 

"  Most  of  all  to  her,"  said  Anna. 

"And  this  grandmother — does  she  bear  her  age 
well  ?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         259 

"  Oh !  yon  must  ask  some  one  else — to  me  grandma 
is  lovely." 

"  And  she  was  kind  to  you  ?" 

"  Kind !» 

Anna's  fine  eyes  opened  wide  at  the  question. 

"  I  was  foolish  to  ask  that,  of  course — grandmothers 
are  always  kind." 

"  But  she  isn't,  like  any  other  grandmother  that  ever 
lived.  She  has  petted  us,  worked  for  us,  gone  without 
food  that  we  might  have  enough.  When  my  father  was 
alive " 

"  Hush !  hush !  we  need  not  speak  of  him.  Robert 
has  told  me  all  about  that." 

The  old  man  was  a  little  excited,  and  seemed  to 
shrink  into  himself  when  Anna  mentioned  her  father. 
So  she  changed  the  subject,  and  said  she  must  go  home ; 
they  would  miss  her  and  be  frightened. 

"  Yes,"  the  old  man  said,  "  perhaps  they  would.  She 
was  looking  natural  again  and  might  go ;  but  it  would 
be  as  well  not  to  say  where  she  had  been.  No  good  in 
talking  too  much,  even  if  it  was  only  to  an  old  grand 
mother." 

Anna  promised  not  to  say  any  thing  about  her  little 
adventure.  It  did  really  seem  to  her  as  if  Providence 
had  taken  away  her  strength  at  that  door-step  for  some 
kind  purpose,  with  which  it  would  be  sacrilege  for  her 
to  interfere.  She  had  a  world  of  faith  in  that  old  man's 
power  to  help  her,  and  went  home,  if  not  happy,  greatly 
comforted. 

The  very  next  morning  young  Gould  sought  an  inter 
view  with  his  uncle,  and  told  him  the  whole  story  about 


260        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

young  Ward,  and  his  own  great  fault  regarding  the 
Burns  family.  He  concealed  nothing,  either  of  his 
former  extravagant  entanglements,  or  the  last  vile  act 
which  this  man  had  perpetrated  under  his  patronage. 

The  old  man  listened  in  dead  silence  till  Gould  had 
exhausted  his  subject.  Then  he  looked  him  quietly  in 
the  face,  and  spoke  in  his  usual  dry  fashion. 

"  Had  you  succeeded  in  really  injuring  this  girl,  I 
should  have  broken  with  you  forever,"  he  said. 

"  I — I  never  thought  of  injuring  her.  It  was  only  a 
freak,  a  sudden  fancy  to  know  who  and  what  she  was. 
I  hope  you  believe  me,  uncle?" 

"  If  I  did  not,  you  would  have  litttle  chance  to  con 
vince  me,  for  I  would  not  endure  3rou  in  my  presence 
an  hour.  Let  that  pass.  You  were  about  to  say  some 
thing  more — ask  something  of  me,  I  believe  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  was.  Having  given  these  people  some 
annoyance " 

"  Driven  them  from  their  home,  in  fact,"  broke  in  the 
uncle 

"Yes,  as  you  say,  driven  them  from  their  home.  I — 
I  should  like,  in  short,  to  give  them  a  better  one." 

"  But  that  is  already  secured  to  them." 

"How  did  you  know  that,  uncle?  Oh!  I  see.  you 
have  been  questioning  the  boy.  But  there  is  something 
about  this  new  home  that  I  do  not  like,  uncle.  I  think 
young  Savage  is  at  the  bottom  of  that  movement." 

"  Very  likely.  He  seems  a  generous  young  fellow 
enough." 

"  But  I  cannot  accept  his  generosit}^.  No  man  shall 
be  permitted  to  pay  the  penalty  of  my  fault." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS.        261 

"  No  man  ?  What  if  I  choose  to  take  that  in,  with 
your  other  expenses  ?" 

"Ah !  that  is  another  thing." 

"Entirely  !  Well,  now  do  not  trouble  yourself  about 
young  Savage,  if  you  love  the  girl." 

"  But  I  don't.  On  the  contrary,  uncle,  I  am  deuced 
near  loving  another  girl,  if  not  quite  in  for  it." 

"  That  is  fortunate,  because  I  could  not  permit  you 
to  marry  this  one.  She's  too  good  for  you,  fifty  per 
cent,  too  good." 

"  Well,  uncle,  we  wont  quarrel  about  that.  But  the 
new  home.  Either  Savage  or  old  Mrs.  Halstead  is  pro 
viding  that,  and  I  wont  permit  it.  We  must  take  this 
on  ourselves." 

"We?" 

11  Yes.     For  what  am  I  without  you  ?" 

The  old  man's  eyes  glistened.  He  took  young  Gould's 
hand  in  his  with  a  vigorous  pressure. 

"  True  enough — true  enough !  No  man  is  sufficient 
to  himself.  That  which  men  call  independence  of  our 
fellow-creatures  only  brings  loneliness.  But  about  this 
house,  nephew?  It  belongs  to  me — I  own  all  that 
property,  every  foot  of  it,  and  better  paying  houses 
can't  be  found.  Old  Mrs.  Halstead  lived  in  one  of  'em 
before  she  took  up  her  residence  with  her  husband's 
son,  and  we've  kept  it  on  hand,  thinking  that  she  might 
want  to  go  back." 

"  Then  you  know  Mrs.  Halstead?" 

"A  little.  She  was  my  tenant.  Well,  your  suspicions 
were  right.  Young  Savage  did  want  to  make  the 
family  more  comfortable.  He  is  an  honorable  young 
fellow,  Gould,  and  did  not  want  to  risk  the  girl's  good 


262    THE  SOLDIER'S  ORPHANS. 

name  by  direct  help — so  he  went  to  Halstead's  daugh 
ter." 

"What,  Miss  Eliza?" 

"  No.     I  think  they  call  her  Georgiana." 

"  Confound  his  impudence  1"  muttered  Gould. 

"  What  were  you  saying,  nephew  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir.  But  is  Savage  so  intimate  with  the 
Halsteads  as  that  ?" 

"  Decidedly.  Mrs.  Savage  hints  that  there  is  an  en 
gagement  between  her  son  and  the  young  lady." 

"  I — I  don't  believe  it,  sir." 

"  Nor  I.  At  any  rate,  this  Georgiana  consented  to 
act  as  his  agent;  and,  thinking  as  you  do,  that  old 
people  are  worth  something  in  an  emergency,  she  went 
at  once  to  her  grandmother  for  help.  Her  grandmother 
came  to  me  about  the  house,  and  I  took  the  whole 
affair  off  her  hands,  knowing  what  a  scamp  you  have 
been,  and  guessing  that  you  would  be  wild  to  make 
atonement." 

"Uncle  I" 

"Well,  sir." 

"  You  are  too  good.  I  am  unworthy  of  all  this  kind 
ness." 

"  Of  course  you  are!"  said  the  old  man,  looking  at 
him  with  eyes  that  twinkled  as  through  a  mist.  "  But 
what  about  this  little  Halstead  girl?" 

"  Uncle,  since  I  saw  her  in  that  garret  with  that 
family,  I  honestly  believe  I  am  getting  in  love  with  that 
girl!" 

"  Hem !"  muttered  the  old  man,  pressing  his  thin  lips 
to  keep  them  from  smiling  too  broadly ;  "  the  second 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        263 

confession  in  twenty-four  hours.  I  wonder  if  Miss  Eliza 
would  lend  me  her  flying  cupid  ?" 

"  Why,  what  do  you  know  about  the  cupid  ?"  inquired 
Gould,  laughing. 

"  Oh !  the  young  lady  sent  for  me,  and  I  went.  She 
was  in  full  state  with  that  little  winged  imp  dancing 
over  her." 

"  Did  she  ask  you  to  sit  on  the  ottoman  ?"  asked 
Gould,  going  into  convulsions  of  laughter. 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  told  her  my  joints  were  too  rusty." 

"And  she  answered  that  '  hearts  never  grow  old. '  I 
know  all  about  it.  Oh  I  uncle,  beware !  But  what  on 
earth  did  she  want  of  you  ?" 

"  She  wanted  to  make  some  inquiries  about  my 
nephew." 

"  What  ?" 

"  How  much  he  was  worth  in  his  own  right,  and  if  I 
knew  that  his  heart  was  touched." 

"  No  1" 

"  If  he  would,  in  the  end,  be  my  heir  ;  and  if  I  intended 
to  divide  with  him  before  my  death." 

"  Oh !  ah,  this  is  too  much.  Had  the  creature  an 
idea  about  Georgiana  ?  Was  I  goose  enough  to  let  her 
guess  that  ?" 

11  Georgiana  1  Nothing  of  that ;  Miss  Eliza  was 
speaking  in  her  own  behalf." 

"  Oh,  uncle  !  that's  too  bad  ;  with  all  my  faults,  I  do 
not  deserve  that." 

"  It  is  the  solemn  truth,  though." 

Here  the  old  man  broke  into  a  low,  chuckling  laugh  ; 
and  Gould,  well-bred  as  he  was,  broke  into  a  wild  ecstasy 
of  fun. 


264  THE     SOLDIER'S     OKPHANS. 

"  She  asked  my  consent." 

"  What !  under  the  cupid  ?" 

"  Said  she  could  not  think  of  encouraging  your  devo 
tion  without  that." 

"  No !  no  !  no  !  she  didn't  do  that !" 

"  Said  that  it  was  but  right  to  confess  that  her  first 
maiden  affections  had,  for  a  moment,  wandered  to  an 
other,  who  might  even  then  hold  her  in  honor  bound  to 
him  ;  but  her  love,  the  pure,  deep,  holy,  irresistible  feel 
ing  would  forever  turn  to  my  nephew,  though  she  might, 
such  was  her  fine  sense  of  honor,  be  compelled  to  marry 
another." 

"  Oh,  uncle,  uncle  !  do  break  off.  I  shall  die— I  shall 
die  with  laughing.  Have  mercy,  uncle." 

"  I  am  an  indulgent  old  fellow,  Gould,  and  I  told  her 
that  my  consent  should  not  be  withheld,  when  you 
asked  it." 

"You  did— and  then?" 

"  Then  she  kissed  my  hand,  slid  down,  with  one  knee 
on  the  ottoman,  and  asked  my  blessing." 

"And  you  gave  it?" 

"  No,  Gould ;  an  old  man's  blessing  is  too  sacred  for 
such  trifling ;  but  Louis  the  grand,  never  lifted  a  woman 
from  her  knees  more  regally.  She  was  delighted  with 
me." 

"  I  wonder  she  did  not  put  in  a  reversionary  interest 
in  yourself,  uncle." 

"She  did,  rather.  I  think  she  said,  if  her  young 
heart  had  not  gone  out  to  my  nephew,  it  would  still  have 
rested  in  the  family." 

"  Excuse  me,  uncle,  but  this  is  getting  too  funny ;  I 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         265 

have  got  a  pain  in  my  side  already.  Just  let  me  off 
awhile  till  I  take  breath." 

"But  about  Georgiana?" 

"  Don't  uncle.  I  cannot  bear  to  have  that  sweet  girl 
mentioned  in  the  same  day  with  that  excruciating  old 
maid." 

"  That  is  right,  Gould.  We'll  talk  of  her  another 
time." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   BOLD    STROKE    FOR   A    HUSBAND. 

GEORGIANA  HALSTEAD  called  on  Mrs.  Savage  as  she 
had  promised.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  change  that 
had  come  over  Horace,  and  went  with  a  heavy  heart  to 
perform  a  painful  task.  Mrs.  Savage  received  her  with 
more  than  her  usual  cordiality.  She  took  off  her  bon 
net  with  her  own  hands,  smoothed  her  hair  caressingly, 
and  kissed  her  forehead  before  she  allowed  the  girl  to 
find  a  seat. 

"And  how  is  my  pet  of  pets  ?"  she  said,  smiling  down 
upon  that  lovely  face.  "  It  is  a  long  time  since  you 
have  been  here,  child." 

"Yes,"  said  Georgie.  "I  have  been  so  busy,  so — 
that  is,  I  have  not  felt  like  going  out." 

Ah  f  I  understand  it  all.  Miss  Eliza  has  been  talking 
to  you ;  what  a  mischievous  creature  she  is.  But  do 
not  believe  a  word  of  it,  dear.  Horace  cares  no  more 
about  that  Burns  girl  than  I  do." 

"  But  I  thought  you  liked  her  so  much !"  said  Georgie 


266         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

faithful  to  her  promise.  "  Why  not,  she  is  a  good  girl, 
and  so  pretty?" 

"  Why,  Georgie,  what  has  coine  over  you  ?  But,  per 
haps,  Eliza  has  been  discreet  for  once." 

"  No,  she  hasn't.  Aunt  Eliza  don't  know  what  dis 
cretion  is.  She  told  me  a  hundred  cruel  things  about 
that  poor  girl ;  but  not  one  of  them  is  true." 

"And,  among  the  rest,  something  about  my  son. 
Confess,  dear,  that  she  has  ?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  do  not  deny  that.  But^so  far  as  re 
lates  to  him,  I  think  it  is  the  truth." 

"  You  think  it  is  the  truth,  Georgie,  and  speak  so 
quietly  about  it?  How  can  you  ?" 

"  She  is  a  dear,  sweet  girl,  Mrs.  Savage ;  and  I  think 
Horace  loves  her." 

"  Horace  does  no  such  thing,  Georgie,  and  you  know 
it.  His  real  love  has  always  been  for  you,  my  own 
child." 

"I  hope  not,"  answered  Georgie,  demurely;  "for  I 
can  never  love  him." 

"  Georgiana  Halstead !" 

"  It  is  true,  Mrs.  Savage.  I  haven't  had  the  courage 
to  tell  you  so  before,  because  your  heart  was  set  on  it ; 
but,  try  as  hard  as  we  will,  Horace  and  I  cannot — that 
is,  I  cannot  marry  Horace." 

Poor  child !  how  she  struggled  to  shield  her  pride, 
and  yet  speak  the  truth.  She  was  trembling  all  over, 
and  yet  smiled  into  Mrs.  Savage's  astonished  face,  as 
if  it  were  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world  that  she  was 
doing. 

"  G°orgiana,  I  cannot  think  that  you  are  in  earnest." 

"Indeed,  Mrs.  Savage,  you  must  think  so." 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    OKPHANS.        267 

"  You  are  angry  about  the  girl,  and  will  not  let  me 
know  it." 

"  Indeed,  I  am  not.  In  my  whole  life  I  never  saw  a 
finer  girl — she  is  worth  a  dozen  of  me." 

"No  human  being  could  ever  claim  half  so  much, 
dear  little  Georgie.  Come,  come,  tell  me  the  truth; 
you  are  very  angry  with  Horace,  and  no  wonder — he 
tries  even  my  patience." 

"  Mrs.  Savage,  do  believe  me ;  I  am  not  in  the  least 
angry  with  any  one.  It  is  only  that  neither  Horace  nor 
I  wish  to  marry  each  other.  We  have  always  been  good 
friends ;  and  I  would  so  like  to  be  related  to  you,  but 
without  mutual  love  it  would  be  wicked." 

"  Then  you  really  do  not  love  my  son  ?" 

"  Don't,  please,  make  me  repeat  it  over  and  over  I  It 
seems  so  harsh ;  but  you  must  not  expect  any  thing  of 
the  kind." 

Mrs.  Savage  threw  her  arms  around  Georgie  where 
she  sat,  and  laid  her  cheek  against  her  hair. 

"  Oh,  Georgie,  Georgie !  you  will  not  disappoint  me 
so." 

The  woman  was  in  earnest ;  her  voice  broke,  and 
tears  fell  upon  the  girl's  bright  hair.  Then  Georgie 
began  to  tremble,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  Dear  child,  you  are  crying,  too.  I  felt  sure  that  you 
could  not  persist  in  this  cruel  resolution.  Come,  child, 
kiss  me,  and  forget  all  that  has  been  said." 

"  No,  no,  dear  friend.  I — I  am  only  crying  because 
it  "is  impossible.  Hearts  are  not  to  be  forced." 

"  But  he  loves  you.     Believe  it,  for  he  does !" 

"  I  am  very  sorry  ;  but  that  can  make  no  difference." 

"  Do  you  love  any  one  else,  Georgians  Halstcad  ?" 


268        THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

A  new  thought  had  struck  the  proud  woman ;  you 
could  tell  that  from  the  imperious  tone  in  which  she 
spoke. 

"  You  must  not  ask  me  any  thing  more,"  answered 
Georgie.  "  I  have  said  all  that  you  will  care  to  hear." 

"  I  think  you  have  all  conspired  to  drive  me  frantic, 
said  Mrs.  Savage,  throwing  herself  back  in  her  chair. 
"  I  thought  every  thing  was  settled  so  nicely.    Now  you 
come  to  disturb  me.     But  I  will  not  give  this  match  up. 
It  has  been  in  my  heart  since  you  were  children." 

"  We  must  give  it  up.  But  do  not  love  me  less  for 
that,  dear  Mrs.  Savage.  If  we  could  love  according  to 
our  own  will,  I  would  gladly  be  your  daughter.  But 
from  this  hour  we  must  never  think  of  it  again." 

Georgie  flung  her  arms  around  Mrs.  Savage,  and 
kissed  her  face,  which  had  an  expression  upon  it  half 
stern,  half  sorrowful.  Then  the  two  women  burst  into 
tears,  and  clung  to  each  other,  sobbing. 

"It  is  because  I  grieve  to  disappoint  you!"  said 
Georgie,  sweeping  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  It  breaks 
my  heart,  for  I  do  love  you  as  if  you  were  my  own 
mother." 

"Ah!  reconsider  it,  Georgie— I  may  be  that." 

"  If  I  could — if  I  could  !"  cried  Georgie,  hurrying  on 
her  things.  "  Good-by — good-by.  It  is  all  my  fault ; 
but  I  cannot  help  it." 

Poor  Georgie.  She  had  gone  through  her  generous 
task  bravely,  but  she  shook  with  agitation  all  the  way 
home ;  and,  once  there,  locked  herself  into  her  own 
little  sitting-room,  and  cried  herself  into  complete  ex 
haustion,  huddled  up  in  the  easy-chair,  in  which  she  had 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        269 

suffered  so  terribly  when  Savage  first  made  her  his  con 
fidant. 

That  evening  young  Savage  came  to  see  her,  looking 
so  miserably  wretched  that  she  forgot  her  own  sorrow 
in  pity  for  him.  "  What  had  gone  wrong  ?"  she  asked, 
"he  looked  so  ill." 

" Nothing!"  For  the  world  he  would  not  have  told 
her,  or  any  one,  of  the  broken  hopes  that  had  left  him 
so  depressed.  To  have  hinted  at  this  would  be  a  sacri 
lege  to  the  love  that  Anna  Burns  had  forfeited.  He 
looked  at  Georgie  earnestly.  Sorrow  had  rendered  him 
sympathetic.  Some  vague  idea  of  the  disappointment 
which  had  left  the  violet  shadows,  so  deep  and  dark, 
about  her  eyes,  fell  upon  him  ;  but  he  did  not  guess  at 
tbe  whole  truth,  but  took  a  misty  idea  that  she,  too,  had 
loved  some  one — young  Gould,  perhaps — and  been  dis 
enchanted  as  he  was. 

"After  all,  Georgie,"  he  said,  "  it  would  have  been 
better  if  you  and  I  could  have  gotten  up  a  grand  passion 
for  each  other.  It  would  have  pleased  our  parents,  if 
nothing  more." 

Georgiana  smiled  sadly  enough. 

"  But  it  was  impossible,"  she  said,  in  a  faint  voice. 
"  That  was  what  she  had  told  his  mother  not  three  hours 
before." 

"  You  told  her  this  ?  Oh !  now  I  remember  !  It  was 
I  who  asked  you.  But  it  was  selfish.  I  had  no  right 
to  wound  your  delicacy  so." 

"  But  it  was  best.  She  had  been  cherishing  a  delu 
sion.  Verj1-  soon  you  will  tell  her  all." 

Savage  did  not  answer.  He  longed  to  make  a  confi 
dant  of  Georgiana,  but  his  heart  was  too  freshly  wounded, 


270        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

he  could  not  expose  its  misery  to  her.  Besides,  how 
could  he  pain  that  pure  heart  with  the  story  he  had  to 
relate  ? 

"We  have  found  a  house  for  Mrs.  Burns,"  said  Geor- 
gie ;  "  such  a  pretty  place,  you  would  almost  think  your 
self  in  the  country." 

"  Will  they  go  ?     Does  she  accept  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  the  old  lady  is  delighted.  Anna  seems  less 
glad,  but  she  accepts  the  change,  and  is  grateful  for  it. 
But  some  change  has  come  upon  her,  more  depressing 
than  poverty — that  she  bore  well." 

"  You  noticed  it,  then  ?  You  saw  how  sadly  she  was 
altered  ?"  said  Savage ;  "  but  did  you  guess  the  cause  ?" 

"  No  ;  how  could  I  ?  Perhaps  she  has  heard  some  of 
the  unkind  things  Aunt  Eliza  is  saying  of  her,  though 
I  cannot  think  how." 

"  Did  you  talk  with  her  ?   Will  she  tell  you  nothing." 

"  No ;  she  said  very  little,  but  her  voice  was  full  of 
tears.  It  broke  my  heart  to  see  her  look  of  suffering." 

"  She  does  suffer,  then,  poor  girl  ?" 

"  I  should  think  so — but  why?  No  doubt  she  is  very 
anxious.  You  have  a  little  of  the  same  look.  Better 
ask  ycur  mother  at  once  ;  with  so  much  happiness  lying 
beyond  her  consent,  it  is  a  pity  to  lose  a  day  in  doubt." 

"  Not  yet.  I  shall  not  speak  to  my  mother  of  this 
yet." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  what  troubles  Anna.     But  why  ?" 

"  Do  not  ask  me,  Georgie.  The  other  night  I  could 
tell  you  every  thing,  but  now  I  am  full  of  uncertainty 
myself." 

"  But  j'ou  love  her  ;  there  is  no  doubt  on  that  point  ?" 
she  asked,  eagerly. 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    OEPHANS.        271 

"  No ;  unhappily.  I  wish But  what  is  the  use 

of  wishing.  Let  us  talk  of  something  else — the  house, 
for  instance." 

"  Oh !  it  is  such  a  pretty  duck  of  a  house,  half  veran 
dahs,  half  little  rooms,  and  the  rest  honeysuckles  and 
roses.  Just  the  place  for  them." 

"  But  you  will  want  money  to  pay  for  every  thing. 
Pray  hand  this  to  your  grandmother." 

"  She  will  not  take  it.  I  asked  her  and  she  said  no ; 
she  had  made  all  the  arrangements  about  money." 

Savage  turned  crimson,  and  held  the  envelope,  which 
he  had  extended  to  her,  irresolutely. 

"  Georgiana,  be  honest  with  me.  Has  Anna  Burns 
refused  to  accept  this  kindness  ?  Has  any  other  person 
preceded  me  here  ?" 

"  No,  no !  I  am  sure  Anna  accepted  grandmamma's 
help  gratefully  enough  ;  and  the  dear  old  lady  would 
not  allow  any  person  to  help  her  if  she  refused  you ; 
that  is,  any  other  young  person.  She  is  not  rich; 
grandpapa  had  but  little  when  he  died ;  but  she  can 
afford  to  do  this." 

Savage  put  the  envelope  in  his  pocket,  sighing 
heavily.  "So  it  seems  I  am  to  be  put  aside  .every 
where,"  he  said. 

"  Not  at  all ;  only  grandmamma  thinks  it  best  that  no 
young  man  should  help  pay  for  the  home  she  has 
selected  for  Anna  Burns. " 

"  She  is  right.   You  tell  me  that  she  has  met  Anna?" 

"  Oh,  j^es!  and  liked  her  so  much  I" 

"  Georgie !" 

"  What  is  it,  Mr.  Savage  ?" 


272        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"You  will  keep  my  secret?  You  will  not  mention 
any  thing  that  I  said  to  you  the  other  day  ?" 

"  How  can  you  think  I  would  ?" 

"  True,  how  could  I  ?" 

"Any  thing  else  ?  You  seem  so  anxious  and  strange 
to-night." 

"  Yes,  one  thing  more,  Georgie.  I  have  got  you  into 
this  affair " 

"Affair  !     Why,  how  you  talk  1" 

"  Well,  let  me  express  myself  better.  It  was  through 
my  mother  you  were  introduced  to  Anna  Burns.  She 
really  knew  very  little  of  the  family." 

Georgie  opened  her  beautiful  eyes  wide,  and  sat  up 
right  in  her  chair,  staring  at  him. 

"  Why,  Horace  Savage,  are  you  turning  against  that 
poor  girl  ?" 

"  No,  no  !     God  forbid  !" 

"Then  what  is  it  you  are  trying  to  say  and  cannot  ?" 

"  Nothing,  only  this ;  I  shall  never  marry  Anna 
Burns." 

"  Why,  Mr.  Savage,  why?" 

"  She  does  not  love  me." 

For  one  instant  Georgie's  face  was  radiant,  then  it 
slowly  settled  back  to  its  former  gentle  sadness,  and 
she  said,  with  firmness, 

"  That  is  terrible,  for  she  loves  you  !" 

"No!" 

"  I  tell  you  she  does." 

"  Still  it  can  never  be.  All  I  ask  is,  Georgie,  that 
you  will  let  this  good  grandmother  care  for  this  family 
without — without  interference  on  your  part." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        273 

"  That  is,  you  don't  wish  me  to  have  much  intimacy 
with  Anna  Burns." 

"  It  would  pain  me  to  put  it  in  that  form." 

"  But  that  is  what  you  mean.  Well,  Mr.  Savage,  I 
cannot  consent  to  it.  I  have  promised  these  people  to 
befriend  them.  They  are  no  common  objects  of  charity, 
but  refined,  and  gently  bred  as  I  am.  You  may  forsake 
them,  but  I  never  will." 

Savage  gazed  on  the  young  girl  with  more  admiration 
than  he  had  ever  felt  for  her  in  his  life  before.  How 
was  he  to  act  ?  In  what  way  could  he  warn  the  girl, 
and  keep  her  safe  from  evil  associations,  and  yet  protect 
his  knowledge  of  Anna  Burns'  unworthiness  ? 

"  Poor  Anna  !  Poor,  dear  girl!  I  know  how  to»pity 
her!"  murmured  Georgie,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  God  bless  you,  Georgie !  What  a  good  heart  you 
have !" 

Savage  sat  down  by  her,  and  taking  her  hand, 
kissed  it. 

"  Miss  Georgiana  Halstead,  is  this  the  way  you 
answer  my  messages  ?"  The  door  of  Georgie's  sitting- 
room  had  been  softly  opened,  and  Miss  Eliza  stood  on 
the  threshold  in  a  dress  of  blue  silk,  and  with  natural 
roses  in  her  hair. 

"  I — I  did  not  receive  any  message,"  answered  Geor 
giana,  shivering. 

"  But  I  sent  one,  asking  Mr.  Savage  to  my  room." 

"  I  will  see  you  presently,  Miss  Eliza,"  said  Savage, 
coming  to  Georgiana's  aid.  "  The  servant  gave  me 
your  message  in  the  hall ;  Miss  Halstead  knew  nothing 
about  it.  I  had  a  little  special  business  with  her." 

"  Indeed  !     Then  I  will  retire." 
It 


274        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Miss  Eliza  gave  him  an  imperial  courtesy,  and  gave 
them  both  a  fine  view  of  her  sweeping  train  as  she  passed 
up  the  stairs. 

"Do  go,"  said  Georgiana,  smiling  in  spite  of  all  her 
trouble  ;  "  she  will  give  me  no  peace  for  a  week  to  come 
if  you  keep  her  waiting.  Besides,  she  saw  you  kissing 
my  hand,  and  it  would  be  an  awkward  subject  at  the 
breakfast  table  before  papa." 

"Rather!"  answered  Savage.  "But,  tell  me,  Geor- 
gianna,  what  shall  I  do  if  she  proposes  to  me  outright  ? 
She  lodked  capable  of  it,  on  my  word  she  did." 

"  Do?"  answered  Georgie,  brightening  under  the  idea. 
"  Why,  marry  her ;  it  will  serve  you  right  for  asking 
me  to  give  up  Anna  Burns.  I  won't  do  it,  make  sure 
of  that." 

"  What  a  thing  it  is  to  fear  no  evil.  God  bless  the 
girl!  What  if  her  answers  were  wiser  than  all  my 
worldly  wisdom  ?" 

Miss  Eliza  was  kneeling  by  her  cozy  chair,  half  pros 
trated  on  the  floor,  over  which  the  broad  circumference 
of  her  crinoline,  and  waves  on  waves  of  blue  silk  swept 
in  rustling  waves.  She  was  crying,  partly  from  pure 
vexation,  and  partly  because  tears  would  be  extremely 
convenient  just  at  that  moment. 

A  light  knock  came  to  the  door.  She  started,  turned 
over  one  shoulder,  shook  out  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and 
bent  to  her  grief  again. 

Another  knock;  a  third,  somewhat  louder,  and  the 
door  opened. 

"Did  you  tell  me  to  come  in  ?" 

Miss  Eliza  started  from  her  knees,  with  a  splendid 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        275 

sweep  of  her  draperies,  and  turning  away  her  head, 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes  with  ostentatious  privacy. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Savage  !  I — I  did  not  hear  you.  Pray  be 
seated  ;  in  a  few  moments  I  shall  be  more  composed." 

"  What  has  happened  to  trouble  you,  Miss  Halstead?  " 
inquired  Savage,  looking  innocent  as  a  lamb. 

"  Oh !  can  you  ask  ?  That  scene !  That  terrible  en 
lightenment  !  Horace !  dear  Horace What  am  I 

about  1  Has  my  sensitive  nature  lost  its  pride  ;  all  the 
lofty  feeling  which  hedges  in  the  love  of  a  woman's 
heart  like — like 

"  Like  the  bur  around  a  half-ripe  chestnut,"  suggested 
Savage.  It  was  very  impudent,  truly ;  but  the  young 
fellow  could  not  have  helped  saying  it  to  save  his  life — 
it  came  into  his  mind  and  out  on  his  lips  so  suddenly. 

"  Do  you  mock  my  anguish  ?  Load  my  desolate 
heart  with  ridicule  ?"  cried  the  lady,  dashing  back  the 
skirt  of  her  dress  like  a  tragedy  queen  in  high  agony. 
"  Has  it  come  to  this  ?" 

"  I  beg- ten  thousand  pardons,  Miss  Halstead  !"  said 
Savage,  blushing  for  himself;  "but  you  seemed  at  a 
loss  for  some  comparison,  and  that  came  into  my  mind 
— not  a  bad  one,  either,  when  you  reflect  how  those  ten 
thousand  little  thorns  keep  rude  hands  from  the  fruit, 
guarding  it  sacredly  till  the  burs  open  of  themselves, 
and  let  the  nuts  drop  out." 

"Mr.  Savage,"  said  Eliza,  "I  beg  your  pardon;  it 
was  a  beautiful  idea;  my  heart  feels  all  its  poetry. 
The  thorns  you  speak  of  are  piercing  it,  oh,  how 
cruelly!  The  bur  has  opened,  the  fruit  has  dropped 
out,  and  you  are  treading  it  under  your  feet." 
"I— I,  Miss  Eliza?" 


276          THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPHANS. 

"  Yes,  you ;  the  betrothed  of  my  soul !  But  it  is  all 
over  ;  never  in  this  world  can  we  be  to  each  other  what 
we  have  been." 

"Why,  Miss  Halstead?" 

"  There  it  is ;  Miss  Halstead — cold,  cruel,  Miss  Hal- 
stead  ?" 

"  But  I  do  not  understand." 

"And  never,  never  will  1"  cried  Miss  Eliza,  spreading 
one  hand  over  her  bosom.  "  No  common  mind  can 
ever  comprehend  the  anguish  buried  here." 

"  But  what  is  this  all  about  ?  I  am  quite  unconscious 
of  having  offended  you." 

"  Offended  1  Does  love  take  offence  ?  Does  despair 
reveal  itself  in  anger  ?  Oh,  Mr.  Savage !  it  was  not 
three  days  ago  that  I  received  the  most  touching  pro 
posal — money,  position,  manly  beauty,  every  thing  that 
could  tempt  the  heart  from  its  allegiance  to  a  beloved 
object,  or  kindle  the  ambition.  But  I  refused  it,  gently, 
kindly — but  I  refused  it." 

"And  why,  Miss  Halstead?" 

"  Why  ?     Great  heavens  !     He  asks  me,  why  ?" 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him ;  she  clasped  her  hands, 
and  sunk  upon  her  knees,  burying  her  face  in  the  cush 
ions  of  that  most  convenient  chair. 

"He  asks  me,  why  1     He  asks  me,  why  I" 

Her  shoulders  began  to  heave  under  the  thin  lace 
that  covered  them ;  her  head  swayed  to  and  fro  in 
spasms  of  grief.  She  crushed  a  little  web  of  fine  linen 
and  lace  up  to  her  eyes  with  both  hands,  and  wet  it 
with  her  tears. 

"I  tear  you  from  my  heart!  I  give  }TOU  np!"  she 
cried.  "  Cold,  hard  man  !  you  see  me  at  your  feet  with- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        277 

out  pity !  With  my  own  eyes  I  have  witnessed  your 
faithlessness;  but  you  make  no  effort  at  consolation, 
explain  nothing !" 

"  What  can  I  explain,  madam  ?" 

"Madam!" 

She  arose  slowly  to  her  full  height,  and,  pointing 
her  finger  at  his  astonished  face,  said,  with  solemn  em 
phasis, 

"Mr.  Savage,  did  I  not  see  you  kissing  Georgiana 
Halstead'shand?" 

Savage  laughed,  a  little  nervously,  it  must  be  con 
fessed. 

"  It  is  possible.     Yes,  I  dare  say  you  did." 

"  He  owns  it!  He  glories  in  his  unfaithfulness  I"  she 
cried  out,  wringing  her  hands.  "  Was  ever  treason  like 
this  ?» 

"  Really,  Miss  Halstead,  this  scene  is  getting  tedious," 
said  Savage,  losing  all  patience.  "  I  am  not  aware  of 
ever  having  given  you  a  right  to  address  me  in  this 
way." 

"  Sir,"  answered  the  lady,  "  I  am  aware  of  my  rights, 
and  will  maintain  them.  To-morrow  my  brother  shall 
call  upon  you  to  decide  between  his  sister  and  his 
child." 

"  Miss  Halstead,  are  you  insane  ?" 

"If  I  am,  Horace,  who  drove  me  to  it  ?  Oh !  this  will 
break  your  mother's  heart." 

"  Miss  Halstead,  sit  down,  and  let  me  talk  with  you 
reasonably.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  this  idea  of 
an  engagement  is  an  impossibility  —  that  it  never 
existed." 


278         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

She  had  seated  herself,  and  held  that  morsel  of  a 
handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"  If  you  have  any  thing  to  say  in  excuse  for  this 
cruel  treachery,  I  will  listen,"  she  said,  with  broken 
hearted  resignation.  "  Heaven  knows  my  heart  pleads 
for  you." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,  madam,"  answered  Savage, 
completely  out  of  patience,  "  except  that  this  farce  is 
fortunate  in  having  no  other  witnesses.  The  wisest 
thing  that  you  or  I  can  do,  is  to  forget  it  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Miss  Eliza  saw  the  quiet  resolution  in  ifis  face,  and 
went  gradually  out  of  the  little  drama  that  she  had 
acted  so  well.  Her  sobs  were  subdued ;  the  morsel  of  a 
handkerchief  fluttered  less  frequently  to  her  eyes.  She 
sat  down,  crestfallen,  with  her  two  hands  lying  loosely 
in  her  lap.  Her  grand  coup  d'etat  had  signally  failed. 
Savage  neither  soothed,  promised,  or  admitted  any 
thing.  All  that  was  left  to  her  was  the  most  graceful 
retreat  she  could  make. 

"  Mr.  Savage,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand,  "  let 
us  be  friends.  If  this  artful  girl  has  won  you  from  me, 
let  us  be  friends,  eternal  friends.  This  proud  heart 
shall  break  in  silence,  if  it  must  break.  But  there  may 
be  a  future  for  us  yet— something  that  the  angels  can 
look  upon  with  pleasure. 

"  'Is  there  no  other  tie  to  bind 
The  constant  heart,  the  willing  mind  ? 

Is  love  the  only  chain  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  there  is  a  tie  as  strong, 
That  binds  as  firm,  and  lasts  as  long- 
True  friendship  is  its  name.1 


THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.        279 

Mr.  Savage,  let  us  work  out  this  beautiful  idea.  My 
soul  turns  toward  it  for  consolation.  Mr.  Savage,  are 
we  friends  ?" 

Savage  took  the  hand  she  held  out,  bowed  over  it, 
and  went  away. 

"Ah !"  said  Miss  Eliza,  leaning  back  in  her  chair — 
for  high  tragedy  is  exhausting — "Ah!  how  fortunate  it 
is  that  Mr.  Gould  presented  himself  in  time.  He  wishes 
to  renew  his  acquaintance.  With  him  a  sure  foundation 
of  a  family  compact  exist — that  interview  with  the  old 
gentleman  was  a  masterpiece.  If — if  the  young  man 
should  prove' treacherous,  like  the  heart  traitor  who  has 
just  left  me,  there  is  still  this  elderly  person,  rich  as 
Vanderbilt,  almost,  and  not  so  very  old.  He  admired 
me  greatly ;  I  could  see  it  in  the  twinkle  of  his  eyes,  in 
the  smile  that  flitted  across  his  lips.  But  only  as  a 
last  resort — only  as  a  last  resort." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A     HUNGRY     HEART. 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  Burns  family  in  that  tene 
ment-house.  The  landlady  was  breaking  her  heart  over 
their  departure.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  driven  them 
from  beneath  her  roof,  with  unjust  suspicions,  and 
lamented  her  fault  with  noisy  grief,  that  distressed  that 
dear  old  lady,  and  brought  the  kindest  assurance  from 
Anna,  who  came  out  of  her  own  sorrows  to  comfort  her 
old  friend. 


280         THE    SOLDIEE'S    ORPHANS. 

"  I  wouldn't  care  about  the  rent,  Mrs.  Burns,"  pro 
tested  the  good  woman.  "  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  I  could  have  got  more  money  for  the  rooms,  and 
can  now ;  but  it  was  like  home  having  you  about  me. 
It  was  respectable ;  and  them  children,  maybe  I  ain't 
made  as  much  on  'em  as  I  oughter ;  but  it'll  be  so  lone 
some  not  hearing  'em  going  up  and  down  stairs,  especi 
ally  Joseph.  I  don't  say  it  to  praise  myself,  but  I 
never  saw  a  big,  red  apple  in  the  market  that  I  didn't 
buy  it  for  that  boy ;  and  I'd  have  given  you  any  thing, 
when  the  tough  times  came  on  you,  if  I'd  only  known 
how." 

"  You  were  kind  to  us — very  kind ;  we  shall  never 
forget  it,"  said  old  Mrs.  Burns.  "  The  children  love 
you  dearly." 

"And  will  be  agin,  if  you'll  let  me.  If  these  silk- 
gown  friends  of  yours  should  ever  get  tired  of  being 
kind,  I'm  on  hand  here,  just  as  good  as  ever.  This 
steel  thimble  ain't  more  faithful  to  my  finger  than  I 
will  be  to  you  and  yours." 

Here  the  good  woman  fairly  broke  down,  and  burying 
her  face  in  the  sailor's  jacket  she  was  making,  sobbed 
violently. 

"  I  wont  let  the  rooms  yet,  though  I  am  back  in  the 
rent.  Who  knows  what  may  happen  ?"  she  said,  at 
last,  wiping  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  "  This  ain't  the 

last  time  you'll  be  under  my  roof.  As  for  Joseph 

Well,  I  ain't  got  words  to  express  my  feelings  for  him !" 

"  He  will  never  forget  you,"  said  the  old  lady,  reach 
ing  out  her  hand,  which  shook  a  little — for  that  hard- 
faced  woman  had  been  a  friend  to  her  when  she  had  no 
other.  "And  I  shall  never  think  of  you  without  a 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        281 

warmer  feeling  at  the  heart.     But  it  is  not  far  off.     We 
will  come  and  see  you  often,  and — and " 

Here  the  old  lady  found  herself  clasped  in  the  land 
lady's  arms,  and  lost  her  breath  in  that  sudden  embrace. 

"And  I'll  come  to  see  you.  I  hope  it's  a  palace  you're 
going  to ;  and  then  it  wouldn't  be  good  enough." 

Mrs.  Burns  left  that  commonplace-room  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  She  did  not  know  how  dear  it  had  been  to 
her.  Anna,  too,  was  very  sad..  She  had  heard  nothing 
from  old  Mr.  Gould  ;  and  her  life  was  so  far  removed 
from  that  of  Savage  that  he  might  have  been  dead,  and 
she  ignorant  of  it.  Georgiana  Halstead  was  the  only 
human  link  between  her  and  her  lover  ;  but  that  young 
lady  never  even  mentioned  his  name.  She  was  just  as 
kind  as  ever ;  came  to  see  them,  and  took  a  deep  inter 
est  in  every  thing  about  their  little  household  ;  but  the 
name  which  Anna  Burns  so  longed  to  hear  never  passed 
her  lips. 

So  the  last  night  had  come ;  all  their  little  effects 
were  packed  up  ready  for  moving.  The  boys  had  gone 
over  to  the  new  house,  which  they  had  not  yet  seen. 
Joseph  had  walked  by  the  house  with  a  bundle  of  news 
papers  under  his  arm,  and  came  home  that  night  in 
wonderful  spirits,  leaping  up  the  stairs  two  steps  at  a 
time.  When  Kobert  asked  him  what  it  was  all  about, 
he  answered, 

"Balconies,  vines,  garden,  and  snow-balls,  with  some 
thing  like  a  house  back  of  it.  Stupendous  !" 

So  Robert  had  gone  with  his  brother  that  evening, 
with  a  candle,  and  box  of  matches,  to  see  what  was 
behind  the  snow-balls  and  vines,  leaving  those  two 
females  alone  in  the  rooms. 


282  THE 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Anna,  sitting  down  by  the  old 
lady,  "  you  have  been  crying." 

"  Yes,  child.  She  was  so  kind,  and  so  sorry,  I  could 
not  help  it." 

"  Grandmother?" 

"Well,  darling?" 

"  Do  you  think  we  shall  ever  be  happy  again  ?  That 
is,  happy  as  we  were  before  this  prosperity  came  upon  us  ?" 

"Are  you  so  very  miserable,  my  darling  ?" 

"Yes,  so  miserable,  so  dreadfully  miserable.  Oh, 
grandma,  grandma !  my  heart  is  breaking." 

"  My  child  !  Anna  Burns  !  There,  there,  lay  your 
head  on  my  bosom.  I  thought  it  was-  hard  to  see  you 
hungry,  dear ;  but  this  is  worse,  a  thousand  times  worse." 

"  Oh,  grandmother!  my  heart  is  hungry,  now." 

"  I  know  it ;  God  help  us,  I  know  it !" 

"  Oh !  what  can  I  do  ?     What  can  I  do  ?" 

"  Have  patience,  child." 

"  I  have  tried  to  have  patience  ;  but  it  is  killing  me." 

"  Pray  to  God,  child — pray  to  God  ;  he  alone  can  feed 
a  hungry  heart." 

"  I  have  prayed,  but  he  will  not  hear  me,"  cried  Anna, 
giving  way  to  a  passion  of  grief. 

"  Yes,  Anna,  he  heard  me  when  I  cried  out  to  him  in 
the  depths  of  a  sorrow  deep  as  yours." 

"  Deep  as  mine !  Oh,  grandmother !  tell  me  what  it 
was.  Have  you  ever  suffered  so  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Anna ;  God  forbid  that  I  should  keep 
back  even  my  own  sorrow,  if  the  telling  will  help  you  to 
bear  that  which  is  upon  you.  I  was  older  than  you, 
dear,  some  two  or  three  years,  when  I  was  married  to 
your  grandfather.  How  dearly  I  loved  him  no  human 


THE    SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.'        283 

being  will  ever  guess,  Anna,  clear.  It  was  wicked  to 
love  any  one  as  I  worshipped  your  grandfather;  as  I 
worship  him  yet ;  for  such  feelings  live  through  old  age." 

"Do  they — do  they?  When  love  becomes  a  pain, 
does  it  ache  on  through  the  whole  life  ?"  cried  Anna, 
trembling  with  agitation.  "Does  nothing  even  quiet  it  ?" 

"Yes,  darling;  God  can  turn  pain  into  resignation." 

"  But  must  I  wait  to  be  old  for  that,  grandmother?" 
cried  Anna,  bursting  into  tears. 

"  Hush,  darling,  hush  !     I  did  not  say  that." 

"  Go  on,  grandmother,"  said  Anna,  drawing  a  deep 
breath,  "  I  will  not  interrupt  you  again.  You  were  tell 
ing  about  grandfather?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  We  had  a  son,  your  father.  We  were 
not  rich ;  but  had  enough,  and  were  very,  very  happy. 
I  know  he  loved  me,  then,  and  I  tried  to  be  a  good  wife 
and  a  kind  mother." 

"  The  best  mother  that  ever  lived ;  my  father  always 
said  that,"  cried  Anna. 

Mrs.  Burns  kissed  her  cheek  and  went  on. 

"  But  your  grandfather  was  ambitious.  He  had  great 
business  talent,  which  was  cramped  and  of  little  avail 
in  the  old  country,  so  he  resolved  to  come  to  America 
and  build  up  a  fortune  here.  My  husband  was  afraid 
to  make  his  first  venture  burdened  with  a  family.  None 
but  very  enterprising  men  left  home  for  this  new  coun 
try  in  those  days ;  and  few  of  them  ever  took  their 
families — it  was  considered  too  hazardous. 

"I  arid  the  boy  were  left  behind.  It  was  a  great 
struggle,  for  he  loved  us  dearly.  I  know  he  loved  us 
with  all  his  heart — nothing  will  ever  convince  me  that 
he  did  not.  He  divided  his  property,  leaving  us  enough 


284         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

to  live  on  for  some  years ;  the  rest  he  took  with  him  as 
capital  to  aid  in  any  new  enterprise  that  might  present 
itself.  I  was  very  lonely  after  he  went.  The  parting 
from  my  husband  took  away  half  my  life.  But  for  the 
boy,  Anna,  I  think  that  I  should  have  died." 

Mrs.  Burns  was  interrupted  by  two  trembling  lips 
upon  her  cheek,  and  a  broken  voice  murmured,  "  Poor, 
poor  grandfather !" 

"  He  wrote  me  by  every  vessel  during  the  first  year. 
'New  York  had  not  answered  his  speculations,'  he  said, 
but  there  was  an  opening  for  fur  dealers  in  the  West, 
and  he  was  thinking  of  that  ver3r  seriously.' 

"  He  went  to  that  great  indefinite  place  called  the 
West,  and  then  his  letters  came  less  frequently — not 
month  by  month,  but  yearly,  and  sometimes  not  then. 
Seven  years  went  by,  Anna.  I  had  heard  nothing  of 
my  husband  during  thirteen  months,  when  a  man  came 
to  the  town  where  we  lived,  and  told  me  that  he  had 
seen  my  husband  in  Philadelphia,  where  he  had  estab 
lished  a  lucrative  business,  and  was  prospering  beyond 
all  his  expectations.  My  husband  had  told  him  that  he 
had  written  to  England  for  his  wife  and  child,  but  had 
received  no  answer  to  his  letter.  Anna,  I  had  been 
more  than  seven  years  separated  from  the  man  I  loAred 
better  than  my  own  life  when  this  news  came.  He  was 
waiting  for  me,  he  had  written,  and  I  had  never  received 
his  letter.  In  less  than  two  weeks  I  had  sold  out  every 
thing,  and  was  on  my  way  to  Liverpool.  In  two 
months  I  landed  in  New  York,  after  a  wretched  voyage, 
which,  it  seemed  to  me,  would  last  forever.  From  New 
York  I  went  to  Philadelphia,  and  found  my  husband's 
warehouse  without  trouble.  I  went  in  quietly  and 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         285 

inquired  for  Mm ;  they  told  me  that  he  had  gone  West, 
and  would  not  be  back  for  months.  While  I  stood,  sick 
at  heart,  wondering  what  I  should  do  next,  a  lady 
entered  the  store — one  of  the  handsomest  women  I  ever 
saw — she  was  richly  dressed,  and  swept  by  me  like  a 
queen. 

" '  No  letters,  yet?"  she  said,  addressing  the  clerk. 
'He  promised  to  write  from  every  station.' 

"  Yes,  madam,  here  is  a  letter — two,  in  fact.  Those 
western  mails  are  so  uncertain." 

"  She  fairly  snatched  at  the  letters,  tore  one  open, 
and  then  the  other.  I  saw  the  handwriting.  It  was 
my  husband's. 

"  '  Madam,'  I  said,  in  a  low  voice,  for  my  throat  was 
husky,  *  who  are  those  letters  from  ?  I,  too,  have  friends 
in  the  West.'" 

She  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  letters,  for  both  were  in 
her  hand  at  once,  and  turned  them  on  my  face. 

"Poor  lady!  I  was  anxious  as  you  are  half  an 
hour  ago.  Who  is  this  letter  from  ?  My  own  husband. 
He  is  safe — he  is  well.  I  hope  you  will  have  good  news 
also.  But  excuse,  me,  I  must  go.  These  letters  will  not 
be  half  mine  till  I  read  them  alone.  Good  morning  !' 

" '  Who  is  that  lady?'  I  inquired  of  the  clerk,  breath 
less  with  strange  apprehension. 

"  '  That  ?  Oh !  she  is  Burns's  wife  ;  lately  married  ; 
an  English  lady  with  whom  he  was  in  love  years  ago. 
She  followed  him  over,  I  believe — that  is,  he  sent  for 
her.  Splendid  woman  !  Don't  you  think  so  ?' 

"  I  did  not  answer.  Every  thing  turned  dark  around 
me,  and  I  went  out  of  the  store  like  a  blind  woman. 
What  was  I  to  do  ?  How  could  I  act  ?  My  husband  1 


286        THE   SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

my  husband  !  Oh,  Anna !  my  heart  is  sore  now,  when 
I  think  of  the  anguish  which  seized  upon  it  then.  He 
was  away,  or  I  should  have  sought  him  out  and 
demanded  why  he  had  dealt  with  me  so  treacherously. 
What  had  I  done  that  his  love  and  his  honor  should  be 
taken  from  me  ?  I  knew  that  both  he  and  that  proud 
lady  were  in  my  power.  But  what  was  vengeance  to  a 
woman  who  was  seeking  for  love  ?  '  No,'  I  said,  in  the 
depths  of  my  desolation  ;  '  though  he  gave  her  up  and 
came  back  to  me  to-morrow,  through  force  or  fear,  it 
would  not  be  the  same  man,  or  the  old  love.  He  may 
have  wronged  this  lady  as  he  has  wronged  me.  She 
looked  too  bright  and  loyal  for  a  guilty  woman.  Then 
why  should  I  wound  her  as  I  have  been  wounded  ?  His 
child  she  cannot  take  from  me.  God  help  us  both !' " 

"  No  wonder  you  are  crying,  Anna — I  could  not  cry. 
But  now,  now  I  am  getting  old,  and  the  very  memory 
of  those  days  makes  a  child  of  me.  Don't  cry,  Anna — 
don't  cry." 

The  old  lady's  voice  died  off  into  sobs,  and  her  tears 
came  down  like  rain. 

"  Oh,  grandmother !  how  sorry  I  am.  But  we  love 
you — love  you  better  than  all  the  world." 

"  I  know  it— I  know  it.  You  see  how  much  love  can 
spring  out  of  a  desert.  I  could  not  stay  in  the  same 
city  with  that  woman.  I  left  Philadelphia.  My  son 
was  ten  years  old.  He  had  been  delighted  with  the 
'  thoughts  of  seeing  his  father ;  and  we  had  talked  our 
happiness  over  so  often  that  he  seemed  a  part  of  my 
own  being.  I  would  have  kept  the  truth  from  him  had 
that  been  possible  ;  but  it  was  not — so  I  told  him  the 
truth.  His  j^oung  spirit  was  terribly  aroused,  a  feeling 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN'S.        287 

of  sharp  resentment  possessed  him.  He  could  not  un 
derstand  all  the  legal  injustice  that  had  been  done  us  ; 
but  he  felt  for  me  as  no  man  could  have  felt.  '  Leave 
him,  mother,'  he  said.  '  I  am  only  a  little  boy,  but  I 
will  take  his  place,  love  you,  work  for  you,  worship  you. 
Indeed,  indeed  I  will.' " 

Anna  was  sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  She 
remembered  her  father's  parting  with  his  mother  when 
he  went  to  the  wars  to  die.  The  old  lady  held  her 
close. 

"  Hush,  darling !     He  is  in  heaven  !" 

"  Oh !  if  we  were  only  with  him,  all  of  us — all  of  us  I" 
Anna  cried  out. 

"  In  God's  own  time,  dear.     He  knows  best." 

After  a  few  moments  of  quiet  weeping  Mrs.  Burns 
went  on. 

"  We  went  back  to  New  York.  I  had  a  little  money, 
and  opened  a  small  store  with  the  name  of  Burns  on  the 
sign.  We  would  not  use  his  name— he  had  taken  it 
from  us." 

"  Did  not  the  name  of  Burns  belong  to  you,  grand 
mother?" 

"  It  was  my  own  mother's  maiden  name." 

"  Then  my-  This,  I  mean  your  husband,  has  an- 
other  name?" 

"Yes;  he  has  another  name." 

"  Do  not  tell  it  me,  grandmother.  I  do  not  want  to 
hate  him,  or  know  him.  My  father  did  not  wish  it,  or 
he  would  have  told  us." 

"No  your  father  wished  that  name  buried— and  it 
was.  We  never  mentioned  it,  but  lived  for  each  other. 
My  business  supported  us  and  occupied  my  mind.  My 


288         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

boy  had  a  good  education,  you  know  that ;  and  a  better 
man  than  he  never  breathed.  He  had  the  talent  of  an 
artist,  and,  as  the  most  direct  wa}^  of  earning  money, 
learned  wood-engraving.  Then  he  married  your  mother. 
She  was  an  orphan,  prettjr  and  good.  I  loved  her 
dearly ;  and  when  she  died,  her  little  children  became 
mine.  We  all  lived  together ;  I  gave  up  my  little  store, 
for  your  father  earned  money  enough  to  support  us. 
We  were  content.  Indeed,  we  were  happy,  in  a  way ; 
living  so  close  together,  loving  each  other  so  dearly — 
how  could  we  help  it  ?  Anna,  dear,  God  always  brings 
contentment  to  the  patient  worker." 

"  Grandmother,  I  understand ;  you  mean  this  for 
me!" 

The  old  lady's  feeble  arms  tightened  around  the  girl, 
and  she  went  on. 

"  Before  your  father  went  to  the  army,  here  the  living 
was  cheaper;  and,  perhaps,  he  had  some  other  reason. 
It  was  his  wish,  and  I  made  no  opposition.  We  had  a 
hard  life,  darling;  sometimes  we  were  hungry  and  cold, 
too.  It  came  with  cruel  force  on  you  children  ;  I  tried 
to  save  you — tried  to  be  all  that  your  father  was  ;  but 
a  poor  old  woman  has  but  little  power.  Still,  still,  look 
back,  child,  and  see  how  the  good  Lord  has  helped  us  ; 
so  many  friends — such  bright,  bright  prospects;  the 
boys  doing  so  well.  Hark!  they  are  coming.  Wipe 
your  eyes,  dear,  they  must  not  think  we  have  been  cry 
ing.  Here  they  come,  so  happy," 

The  old  woman  wiped  her  tears  away  and  looked 
toward  the  door,  smiling.  Anna  caught  the  sweet 
infection,  and  she  too  looked  bright  and  hopeful  when 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.'       289 

the  boys  came  in  clamorous  with  praises  of  their  new 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A   MYSTERIOUS   APPOINTMENT. 

MRS.  SAVAGE  was  in  a  state  of  continual  unhappiness. 
When  a  really  good-hearted  woman  swerves  from  the 
right  path,  either  from  policy  or  interest,  she  is  sure  to 
be  the  greatest  sufferer  of  all  the  parties  in  interest.  She 
saw  her  son  come  in  and  go  out  with  that  restless, 
dejected  air  which  often  follows  a  great  disappointment. 
He  took  no  interest  in  his  old  pursuits;  and  all  the 
sweet  confidence  which  had  existed  between  the  mother 
and  son  was  swept  away  from  their  lives.  This  sprung 
mostly  out  of  her  own  self-consciousness.  She  knew 
that  her  own  ruthless  influence  had  broken  up  the  best 
hope  of  his  young  life  ;  and  remembering  that  cruel  in 
terview  with  Anna  Burns,  would  not  look  her  son 
squarely  in  the  face,  or  soften  his  melancholy  with  sweet 
caresses,  as  a  good  mother  loves  to  give  while  comfort 
ing  her  son.  Horace  felt  this,  and  it  made  him  feel  still 
more  desolate. '  He  congratulated  himself  that  his 
mother  was  ignorant  of  the  humiliating  attachment  he 
had  formed,  and  gathered  up  all  the  strength  of  his 
manhood  to  meet  the  life  which  lay  before  him  divested 
of  half  it's  bloom. 

Better  than  he  thought  Mrs.  Savage  understood  all 
this.     She  saw  that  it  was  no  capricious  liking  that  her 

son  had  to  deal  with :  and,  spite  of  herself,  the  sweet 
18 


290        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

face  of  Anna  Burns,  in  its  sad,  pleading  humility,  which 
was,  after  all,  more  dignified  than  pride,  would  present 
itself  to  her  memory  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  intellect  which 
still  protested  that  she  had  done  right,  the  heart  in  her 
bosom  rose  up  against  her,  and  called  her  a  household 
traitor,  an  unnatural  mother,  a  hard  woman,  and  some 
other  harsh  names,  that  she  would  have  been  glad  to 
forget. 

Then  there  was  the  certainty  that  Georgiana  Halstead 
never  would  be  her  son's  wife.  Mrs.  Savage  had  loved 
this  bright-faced  girl  with  unusual  tenderness ;  and  this 
conviction  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  Altogether, 
things  were  taking  an  unsatisfactory  course  with  her — 
and  she  was  a  most  unhappy  woman. 

One  day  when  Horace  came  in  from  business,  and 
was  going,  as  usual,  to  his  own  room,  Mrs.  Savage 
called  to  him  with  a  quiver  of  suffering  in  her  voice, 
that  made  him  pause  half  way  up  the  stairs  and  turn 
back. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  the  matter,  mother  ?"  he  said, 
entering  her  pretty  sitting-room,  stiffly,  as  if  he  had 
been  a  stranger. 

Mrs.  Savage  remembered  the  time  when  he  would 
have  come  in  with  a  laugh,  thrown  himself  on  the  stool 
at  her  feet,  and  with  both  arms  folded  on  her  lap,  told 
her  of  any  thing  that  was  uppermost  in  his  heart.  She 
sighed  heavily,  and  a  weary  look  of  pain  came  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  Horace !  why  is  it  that  we  seem  so  strange  to 
each  other  ?" 

"  Strange  are  we  ?  I  had  not  thought  of  it,  mother." 

He  was  surprised  and  touched  by  her  manifest  un 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        291 

happiness.     Absorbed   in   his   own   thoughts,   he   had 
scarcely  noticed  that  she  was  not  as  cheerful  as  usual.   • 

"  Dear  old  pet,"  he  said,  making  a  strained  effort  at 
playfulness,  "  what  has  come  over  you  ?  Is  it  because 
her  inhuman  son  has  been  making  a  wretch  of  himself? 
Come,  give  him  a  kiss,  he  is  sadly  in  want  of  it." 

Mrs.  Savage  kissed  him  on  the  forehead  with  quiver 
ing  lips ;  and  flinging  herself  back  in  the  chair  burst 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

The  startled  son  threw  his  arms  around  her. 

"Why,  mother,  mother!  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this  ?" 

Mrs.  Savage,  superior  woman  as  she  was,  answered 
like  the  most  commonplace  female  in  the  world. 

"Oh,  Horace !  I  am  sure  you  hate  me !" 

"Hate  you ?   Why,  mother,  what  have  I  have  done ?" 

"Nothing!  Nothing  in  the  world!  It  is  I  that  am 
to  blame !" 

"  But  there  is  no  blame  between  us.  If  all  this  is 
about  Georgiana  Halstead,  do  understand,  once  for  all, 
she  does  not  want  me,  and  never  cared  for  me  in  the 
least,  only  as  a  playmate  and  sort  of  brother.  In  fact, 
she  is  almost  engaged  to  young  Gould." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it !  She  told  me.  Every  thing 
goes  wrong!  I  am  the  most  unhappy  woman  in  the 
world !" 

"  Who  makes  you  so  unhappy,  dear  mother  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly  through  her  tears,  gave 
a  hysterical  sob,  and  sat  upright  in  her  chair,  resolute 
and  proud  of  look  as  he  had  seen  her  of  old. 

"  Horace,  do  you  love  that  girl,  Anna  Burns  ?" 

Savage  started  up,  and  his  face  flushed  scarlet. 


292         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  Mother !" 

"  I  knew  all  about  it  almost  from  the  first,  Horace." 

"  You  ?  And  said  nothing.  That  was  kind.  Is  it 
this  which  has  troubled  you  so  much  ?" 

"  Yes,  it  has  troubled  me — I  am  so  sorry." 

"Do  not  reproach  me,  mother.  It  is  the  first  time  I 
ever  went  against  what  I  knew  would  be  your  wishes. 
You  are  right,  there  can  be  no  happiness  in  going 
beneath  our  own  grade  in  life  ;  but  she  seemed  so  refined, 
so  innocent,  and  good.  I  think  a  wiser  man  than  I  ever 
was  would  have  been  interested.  I  had  hoped  that  this 
little  shame  of  my  life  would  never  reach  you  or  my 
father." 

"  He  does  not  know  it ;  but  I  do — I  do !  Tell  me, 
Horace,  for  you  have  not  answered  my  question  yet. 
Do  you  love  this  girl  ?" 

"  I  did  love  her  dearly — better  than  my  own  life !" 

"And  now?" 

"  If  you  know  all,  mother,  why  wound  me  with  that 
question  ?" 

"Because  I  wish  to  know — because  I  must  know." 

"  She  has  the  power  to  give  me  terrible  pain,  mother ; 
beyond  that  I  will  say  nothing." 

"But  you  did  love  her  ?" 

"I  have  said  so." 

"And  but  for  her  unworthiness  would  love  her  yet  ?" 

"  We  need  not  speak  of  what  will  be.  There  is  misery 
enough  in  what  is." 

"  Sit  down,  my  son,  in  the  old  place,  at  my  feet ;  then 
turn  your  eyes  away.  I  do  not  like  you  to  look  at  me 
so.  Now  say,  if  this  girl  were  all  you  first  thought  her 
to  be,  would  you  marry  her  ?" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        293 

"  What !  against  your  consent,  mother  ?" 

"  I  did  not  say  that.  Ask  your  own  heart,  Horace ; 
was  the  love  you  felt  for  this  girl  such  as  runs  through 
a  man's  whole  life ;  such  as  leads  him  to  make  all  sacri 
fices  in  its  attainment  ?" 

"  Yes ;  if  ever  a  man  loved  honestly  and  devotedly  I 
did.  But  it  is  all  over  now." 

"  But  you  are  very  unhappy  ?" 

"Toy.* 

"  Will  you  never  forget  her  ?  Oh,  Horace  !  will  the 
old  times  never  come  back  to  us  ?" 

"I  cannot  tell,  mother.  When  the  heart  has  been 
betrayed  into  giving  itself  up  entirely,  the  reaction,  if 
it  ever  comes,  must  be  slow  and  painful." 

"Horace!" 

"  Mother !" 

"  I — I  wish  to  see  you  happy.  My  heart  aches  for 
you.  I  would  do  any  thing  rather  than  see  you  look 
ing  so  dispirited." 

"  But  you  can  do  nothing.  Yes,  yes ;  I  should  not 
say  that!*  Love  me,  and  bear  with  me  awhile ;  this  can 
not  last  forever." 

"  With  you,  perhaps,  not ;  but  with  me  it  will  last 
forever.  My  son,  it  is  your  mother  who  has  done  this. 
She  is  the  person  you  ought  to  hate.  Anna  Burns  is 
guiltless  as  an  angel.  I,  your  mother,  says  this ;  and 
you  must  believe  it." 

"  Mother,  mother !  are  you  getting  insane  ?" 

"  No,  Horace ;  I  heard  of  this  attachment,  and  con 
demned  it.  My  pride  was  wounded,  my  ambition  thwart 
ed.  I  thought  Georgian*  loved  you,  and  that  this  girl 
had  come  in  her  way  to  cause  all  sorts  of  unhappiness. 


294        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

I  appealed  to  her  generosity.  I  told  her  that  nothing 
on  this  earth  should  win  our  consent  to  your  marriage 
with  her.  She  told  me  how  young  Ward  had  perse 
cuted  her ;  and  I,  unwomanly,  ungenerous  woman  that  I 
was,  bade  her  leave  you  in  doubt,  that  you  might  be 
shocked  out  of  your  love.  She  pleaded,  she  wept,  she 
protested,  but  gave  way  at  last,  and  pledged  her  word 
to  avoid  you,  and  leave  the  suspicions  in  your  mind  to 
rest  there." 

"  Oh,  mother,  mother !  this  is  terrible  !" 

"  I  know  it,  boy ;  but  it  is  all  true.     God  forgive  me  !" 

Savage  was  standing  before  his  mother,  white  as 
death,  but  with  a  glow  of  deep  thoughtfulness  in  his 
eyes. 

"  And  she  is  innocent  ?" 

"  As  an  angel,  I  do  believe.  Innocent  even  of  guess 
ing  the  evil  thoughts  you  had  of  her.  The  worst  she 
dreamed  of  was,  that  you  supposed  her  capable  of 
marrying  that  young  scapegrace." 

"  Thank  heaven  for  that !  She  will  not  have  felt  the 
insult  so  deeply !  But  I  was  cruel  with  her,  the  inno 
cent  darling." 

"  No,  it  was  I  who  was  most  cruel.  I,  who  forbade 
her  to  explain^  I,  who  left  her,  broken-hearted,  to  strug 
gle  against  her  honest  affection,  and  the  shame  of  which 
she  was  unconscious.  Can  you  ever  forgive  me,  Horace  ?" 

"  Forgive  you !  mother  ?  Is  that  a  question  which  you 
should  ask  of  your  son?  The  question  is,  will  Anna 
Burns  ever  forgive  me  ?" 

"  She  will — she  must.  I  will  go  to  her.  I  will  hum 
ble  myself  as  is  befitting  one  who  has  given  way  to  her 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         295 

pride  cruelly  as  I  have.  But  first,  Horace,  say  that  you 
will  forget  this,  and  love  me  in  the  old  way  ?" 

Bright  tears  were  in  those  fine  eyes,  the  sympathetic 
mouth  worked  with  emotion.  That  look  of  yearning 
entreaty  went  to  the  son's  heart ;  he  knelt  by  her  side, 
kissed  her  hands,  her  forehead,  and  the  eyes  which  were 
still  heavy  with  repentant  dew. 

"  Forget  it  ?  Oh,  mother  !  how  can  I  forget  this  no 
bility  of  soul  which  gives  back  the  bloom  to  my  life.  It 
was  love  for  me  that  made  you,  for  a  time,  less  than 
yourself.  That  I  will  forget." 

"And  love  me  dearly,  as  of  old  ?" 

"Indeed,  and  indeed,  I  will." 

"  This  love  of  Anna  Burns  must  not  make  you  forget 
me." 

The  lady  said  this  with  a  piteous  smile.  It  was  hard 
to  give  him  up. 

"  Mother,  do  you  love  my  father  less  because  of  me?" 

"  No,  no !     How  should  I  ?" 

"Love,  like  mercy,  is  not  strained,  mother.  The 
heart  that  can  feel  it  at  all  in  its  perfection,  grows 
larger  and  grander  with  each  new  object  of  affection." 

The  mother's  face  became  luminous  with  one  of  those 
smiles  which  flood  all  the  features  with  sunshine.  She 
fell  forward  upon  her  son's  bosom,  sighing  away  the 
last  remnants  of  her  unhappiness. 

"  God  bless  you,  my  son  !  I  will  love  Anna  Burns 
dearly  for  your  sake  !" 

"  May  I  go  to  her  now,  mother  ?" 

"  Not  yet.  Wait  a  little  till  I  have  prepared  your 
father.  He  knows  nothing.  When  you  see  her  again 
it  must  be  with  full  authority." 


296         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"You  are  right,  mother.  I  am  happy,  and  I  can 
wait !" 

A  servant  opened  the  door,  bringing  in  a  card. 

"Mr.  Gould — what  can  he  want  of  me,  I  wonder?" 
exclaimed  the  lady,  looking  at  the  card. 

"  I  will  leave  you  to  find  out,"  answered  Horace,  kiss 
ing  his  mother's  hand. 

Scarcely  had  the  son  disappeared  from  one  door, 
when  old  Mr.  Gould  came  in  through  another.  He  was 
grave  and  quiet,  not  to  say  stern,  in  his  manner  toward 
the  lady  who  came  forward  to  receive  him.  With  that 
old-fashioned  formality  which  is  so  pleasant  in  a  gray- 
headed  man,  he  led  Mrs.  Savage  back  to  the  seat  she 
had  left,  and  drew  a  chair  close  to  it.  Then  he  began 
conversing  with  her  in  a  low,  earnest  voice.  She  heard 
him  at  first  with  a  little  surprise ;  then  her  interest 
deepened,  the  hot  color  came  and  went  in  her  face ;  and 
more  than  once  she  broke  out  into  exclamations  that 
seemed  half  pleasure,  half  disappointment.  When  the 
old  gentleman  arose  she  gave  him  her  hand,  which  he 
bowed  over  with  a  reverence  which  was  not  without 
grace. 

"  I  rejoice  that  you  come  too  late,"  she  said,  smiling 
upon  him. 

"And  so  do  I.  Such  things  bring  back  one's  old 
trust  in  human  nature." 

"I,  at  least,  ought  to  be  thankful  that  all  the  atone 
ment  in  my  power  was  made  in  time,"  she  said,  gra 
ciously. 

"You  will  all  be  punctual.  I  am  an  old  business 
man,  remember,  and  shall  expect  you  at  the  moment." 

"You  can  depend  on  us." 


THE  'SOLDIER'S    OKPHANS.        297 

They  shook  hands  at  the  door  with  great  cordiality, 
and  the  old  man  smiled  as  he  went  down  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

AN   ENGAGEMENT. 

THE  Burns  family  had  moved  into  that  pretty  cottage, 
and  were  all  assembled  in  the  little  dining-room  which 
opened  on  the  flower-garden,  and  from-  which  it  was  fes 
tooned  in  by  a  drapery  of  vines,  which  filled  the  bal 
conies  with  delicious  green  shadows.  There  was  noth 
ing  very  splendid  about  this  new  home  ;  but  it  was,  for 
all  that,  the  prettiest  little  place  you  ever  set  eyes  upon 
— and  the  scene  within  that  dining-room  a  picture  in 
itself.  There  sat  the  old  lady,  at  the  head  of  the  table, 
with  a  pretty  china  tea-set  before  her,  and  the  whitest 
of  linen  cloths  falling  from  beneath  the  tray  toward  her 
lap.  Opposite  her  sat  Anna  Burns,  looking  pale  and 
sweetly  sad,  for  the  heart-ache  never  left  her  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  but  with-  a  smile  always  ready  for  little  Joseph, 
when  he  told  her  of  some  episode  in  his  active  young 
life,  or  boasted,  in  his  bright,  childish  way,  of  the  papers 
he  had  sold.  Robert  listened  to  him  with  a  paternal 
smile  on  his  young  lips ;  and  the  dear  old  lady  had  a 
gentle  word  to  say  writh  every  cup  of  tea  that  her  little 
hand  served  out  so  daintily. 

While  they  were  occupied  at  the  tea-table,  Georgiana 
Halstead  came  up  the  garden-walk,  treading  lightly  as 
an  antelope,  and  smiling  to  herself  only  as  the  happy 


298        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

can  smile.  She  snatched  at  some  of  the  flowers  as  she 
passed,  and  came  up  to  the  window  forming  them  into 
a  bouquet,  with  which  she  knocked  lightly  on  the  glass. 
Anna  arose  from  the  table,  and  went  out  to  meet  her 
friend  with  a  wan  smile  on  her  lips,  which  seemed  but 
the  shadow  of  that  which  beamed  over  Georgie's  whole 
face. 

"  Come  this  way,  Anna,  I  have  something  to  tell  you. 
Out  here,  where  this  pyramid  of  white  roses  can  hide 
us  from  the  window.  I  would  not  have  them  think 
there  was  any  thing  particular  for  the  world." 

The  two  girls  went  down  the  walk,  and  sheltered 
themselves  behind  the  rose-bushes  as  they  talked  to 
gether. 

"Anna,  I  have  something  to  tell  you.  Don't  look 
frightened ;  it's  nothing  bad— at  least  I  don't  think  it 
is  j  but — but  things  will  turn  out  so.  You  know  about 
young  Mr.  Gould,  don't  you?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  He  has  been  so  good  to  our  Robert.  I 
have  seen  him,  too." 

"Don't  you  think  him  very — that  is,  rather  hand 
some  ?" 

"  Indeed,  I  do — very  handsome." 

11 1  am  glad  ;  that  is,  I  thought  you  would  think  so." 

Here  Georgie  began  to  blush,  and  pluck  at  a  branch 
of  the  rose-bush  with  great  energy.  Anna  saw  that  the 
secret,  whatever  it  was,  struggled  in  her  throat ;  and, 
with  that  gentle  tact  which  is  the  very  essence  of  re 
finement,  went  on  with  the  conversation. 

"  Mr.  Gould  has  been  so  very  considerate  about  our 
Robert.  It  was  only  yesterday  he  doubled  his  weekly 
pay,"  she  said. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        299 

"  Oh !  he's  generous  as  a  prince !    Look  here,  Anna." 

Georgie  took  off  her  glove,  and  extended  a  little  hand 
which  blushed  to  the  finger-tips  as  it  exhibited  a  ring, 
in  which  was  a  single  diamond  limpid  as  water,  and 
large  as  a  hazel-nut. 

"Why,  that  is  the  engagement-finger!"  exclaimed 
Anna,  surprised. 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  engagement-finger.     He  put  it  on !" 

Anna  turned  white  as  snow. 

»  He !     Who  ?— Mr.  Savage  ?" 

She  spoke  with  sharp  agony,  forgetting  even  that 
young  Gould  had  been  mentioned. 

"  Mr.  Savage  ?  No,  indeed !  He  never  cared  a  fig  for 
me.  This  ring — a  beauty,  isn't  it? — was  put  on  my 
finger  last  night  by  Mr.  Gould." 

"And  are  you  really  engaged?" 

"  That  is  exactly  what  I  came  to  tell  you.  No  one 
else  has  been  told  as  yet ;  but  I  could  not  exist  without 
having  some  one  wish  me  joy — so  I  came  to  you. 
Papa  and  dear  old  grandma  will  give  consent  this 
morning." 

"Are  you  certain  of  that?"  asked  Anna,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  every  thing  is  right  there.  Asking  is  only 
a  form." 

"  I— I  am  glad,  very  glad,"  said  Anna ;  but  her  voice 
trembled,  and  she  felt  ready  to  burst  into  tears. 

Georgiana  looked  at  her  earnestly.  She  had  a  vague 
idea  that  something  had  gone  wrong  between  her  and 
Savage,  but  was  all  in  the  dark  regarding  the  par 
ticulars. 

"But  you  look  so  sorrowful,  Anna.  I  thought  to  give 
you  pleasure." 


300         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  I  am  not  sorrowful — at  least  not  very.  About  you 
and  Mr.  Gould  I  am  glad  as  glad  can  be ;  indeed,  in 
deed  I  am  !  Only  you  know  one  gets  a  sorrowful  look 
after — after  so  much  trouble." 

"  But  your  troubles  are  all  over  now." 

"Are  they?  Oh,  yes!  we  are  very  well  off.  You 
don't  know  the  difference.  Sometimes,  when  I  awake 
in  the  morning  and  see  such  hosts  of  leaves  trembling 
about  my  window,  it  seems  unbelievable.  There  is  a 
taria  that  has  climbed  up  the  balconies  to  the  third 
story,  leaving  wreaths  of  purple  blossoms  all  the  way. 
Sometimes  it  seems  impossible  that  such  things  can  be 
for  us." 

"  But  they  are,  and  better  things  are  coming,  I  feel 
sure  of  it ;  only  get  that  sad  look  off  your  face,  Anna. 
I  cannot  bear  to  be  so  happy,  and  see  you  going  about 
like  a  wounded  bird.  Now  kiss  me,  dear,  and  then  we 
will  go  tell  grandma." 

Anna  kissed  the  sweet  mouth  bent  to  hers,  and  the 
two  girls  went  into  the  house.  One  smiling  like  a  June 
morning,  the  other  smiling,  too,  but  with  a  look  of  sup 
pressed  tears  about  the  eyes.  Mrs.  Burns  had  left  the 
breakfast-table,  and  was  waiting  for  their  visitor  in  the 
little  parlor,  framed  in  by  the  open  window  like  one  of 
those  delicious  old  German  home-pictures,  that  seem  so 
real  that  you  feel  the  poetry  in  them,  but  cannot  for  the 
life  of  you,  tell  where  it  lies.  She  came  forward  to 
meet  Georgiana,  with  her  hand  held  out,  ready  for  the 
good  news  so  eloquent  in  that  beautiful  young  face. 

"  I  know  it  is  something  pleasant,"  she  said,  smooth 
ing  the  pretty  hand  that  lay  in  hers,  warm  and  flutter 
ing  ;  "  tell  me,  dear." 


THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        301 

"  Yes,  grandma,  I  come  for  that ;  but — but  how  to 
begin." 

She  laughed  sweetly,  blushed,  and  looked  appealingly 
to  Anna.  The  secret  was  harder  to  tell  than  she 
thought  for. 

"  Grandmother,  she  is  going  to  be  married ;  only  it 
is  a  secret  with  us,  remember.  It  is  to  young  Mr. 
Gould." 

"  Young  Mr.  Gould  !"  repeated  the  old  lady.  "  What, 
the  young  gentleman  who  came  here  ?  No,  it  was  to 
the  other  house." 

"  Yes,  grandma,"  said  Georgie,  smiling  afresh  amid 
the  crimson  of  her  blushes,  "  I — I  am  sure  you  like  him." 

"  Indeed,  I  do,"  answered  the  old  lady.  "  Why  should 
any  one  doubt  it  ?" 

She  spoke  seriously,  and  with  a  certain  intonation 
which  surprised  both  the  girls. 

"And  he  thinks  so  much  of  you,"  cried  Georgie. 
"  As  for  Robert,  I  really  believe  no  brother  ever  loved 
a  little  fellow  better." 

"He  is  very  kind,"  answered  the  old  lady,  and,  for 
the  first  time  in  their  lives,  those  two  girls  saw  a  shade 
of  sarcasm  on  that  dear  old  face.  It  was  very  faint,  but 
they  did  not  like  it. 

"I — I  am  almost  afraid  that  you  do  not  like  him," 
faltered  Georgie. 

"  It  would  be  unjust  if  I  did  not,"  answered  the  old 
lady,  sadly.  "  He  was  not  to  blame." 

"  Not  to  blame,  grandma  ?"  repeated  Georgie,  amazed. 

"Did  I  say  that?  Well,  of  course,  he  is  not  to 
blame  for  any  thing,  especially  for  loving  our  own  home- 
angel  !" 


302  THE 

"  There,  that  is  a  dear,  blessed,  darling  old  grandma 
again!  Why,  you  haven't  kissed  me  yet,  or  wished 
me  joy,  or  any  thing?" 

"  But  I  will— I  do.     There  I" 

The  soft  lips  of  the  old  lady  were  pressed  to  Georgie's 
forehead,  those  old  arms  folded  her  close. 

"  God  bless  you,  dear!  God  forever  bless  both  you 
and  him!" 

"  Thank  you,  grandma — thank  you  a  thousand  times ; 
that  was  just  what  I  wanted  to  make  my  joy  complete. 
Ah!  here  comes  Robert,  with  his  face  all  in  a  glow. 
What !  are  those  flowers  for  me  ?" 

"  I  should  like  to  make  them  prettier ;  but  time  is  up, 
and  I  must  be  off.  Here  is  some  of  grandma's  rose- 
geraniums,  and  all  the  blossoms  from  my  own  helio 
trope.  Good-by,  Miss  Georgie.  Young  Mr.  Gould 
raised  my  salary  last  week.  Isn't  he  splendid." 

Georgiana  caught  his  face  between  her  two  hands 
and  kissed  him  on  the  spot.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
decide  which  of  those  two  young  faces  was  the  rosiest 
when  those  hands  were  withdrawn.  The  truth  was,  if 
Robert  had  an  earthly  divinity  it  was  the  young  lady 
who  had  just  kissed  him.  So  he  went  away  with  a  glow 
upon  his  face,  and  a  warmer  one  in  his  heart,  wondering 
if  there  was  another  boy  in  all  Philadelphia  who  could 
have  been  so  honored,  and  wishing  the  whole  earth 
were  covered  with  rose-geraniums,  heliotrope,  cape  jas 
mines,  and  blush-roses,  that  he  might  scatter  them 
under  her  feet  and  catch  the  perfume  as  she  walked 
over  them. 

Georgie,  rather  ashamed  of  herself,  went  home,  won 
dering  what  it  was  which  gave  that  sad,  wistful  look  to 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        303 

Anna  Burns's  eyes  ;  and  coming  generously  out  of  her 
own  happiness,  far  enough  to  wish  that  every  thing  had 
gone  right  with  young  Savage,  that  Anna  might  have 
been  married  on  the  same  day  with  herself.  She  won 
dered  if  nothing  could  be  done  to  bring  this  about. 
Why  was  it  that  Savage  had  said  nothing  to  her  of  late  ? 
It  saddened  her  to  think  that  Anna  was  given  up  to 
such  depression  of  spirits  when  she  was  so  happy. 

"  But  it  will  not  last,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  Only 
think  how  miserable  I  was  only  a  little  while  ago.  Why, 
it  was  like  wrenching  at  my  own  heart  when  young 
Savage  came  with  his  confidence,  and  wanted  me  to 
help  him.  But  there  was  a  difference.  He  did  not  love 
me,  and  he  did  love  her.  I  wasn't  to  go  on  adoring  him 
after  that,  it  would  have  been  wrong  ;  and,  after  all,  I 
wasn't  exactly  the  girl  to  degrade  myself  in  that  way. 
Now  I  really  do  wonder  how  it  happened  that  I  cared 
for  him  so  much.  Certainly  he's  handsome  and  gentle 
manly  ;  but  Mr.  Gould Dear  me !  it's  fortunate 

that  I'm  alone,  or  people  might  read  what  I  think  of 
him  in  my  face ;  but,  as  Robert  says,  he  is  splendid." 

Georgiana  went  home  with  such  thoughts  as  these 
fluttering  through  her  head,  like  humming-birds  among 
roses.  In  the  hall  she  met  Miss  Eliza,  who  seemed  in  a 
great  flutter  of  excitement. 

"  Come  in  here,"  said  the  spinster,  leading  the  way 
into  a  half-darkened  drawing-room.  "What  do  you 
think  has  happened  ?  Old  Mr.  Gould  is  here  closeted 
with  mother.  What  could  it  be  about?  Have  you 
any  idea,  Georgie  ?  Just  feel  my  hands  how  they 
tremble.  Isn't  it  thrilling  when  a  young  girl  like 
me  feels  that  two  people  are  settling  a  destiny 


304:       .THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

of  love  for  her  in  a  close  room  ?  Tell  me,  dear, 
which  is  it  do  you  think  ?  Has  the  elder  gentleman 
struggled  against  the  passion  in  his  bosom,  and  resigned 
me,  with  the  wrench  of  the  heart  which  will  be  felt 
through  his  whole  life,  to  the  intense  adoration  of  his 
nephew — or  has  he  come  to  plead  for  himself?  Heavens, 
how  the  doubt  agitates  me  !" 

"  Is  old  Mr.  Gould  with  grandmamma  now  ?"  inquired 
Georgie,  glad  that  the  half  light  concealed  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  Hark  !  he  opens  the  door ;  his  tread  is 
in  the  upper  hall — on  the  stairs.  It  comes  nearer.  Sup 
port  me,  Georgiana." 

Miss  Eliza  curved  downward,  and  hid  her  face  on 
Georgie's  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  Georgie  !  do  not  let  him  come  in.  This  emo 
tion — this  wild,  young  heart  will  betray  itself ;  and  he 
must  not  know  how  I  adore  him." 

"Which?"  questioned  Georgie. 

"  Which — which  ?  Why,  the  one  that  has  proposed. 
How  can  you  ask  such  questions  ?  Thank  heaven !  this 
heart  has  strength  and  breadth,  and — and  capacities ; 
but  what  is  the  use  of  talking  to  a  child  to  whom  love 
is,  as  yet,  a  mystery  folded  in  the  bud — while  with  me 
it  is  a  full-blown  flower  ?  Ah,  Georgie  !  congratulate  me." 

Again  Miss  Eliza  threw  herself  slantwise  on  to 
Georgie's  neck,  and  heaved  a  billowy  sigh. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Eliza,  please !  you  are  so  heavy,"  pleaded 
the  poor  girl. 

"  Heavy!  When  my  whole  being  is  one  bright  wave 
of  bliss ;  when  this  great  love  rises,  full-fledged,  from 
my  heart,  like  a  bird  of  paradise,  with  all  its  golden 


THE   SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS.       305 

plumage  full  of  sunlight.  Go,  child,  go !  this  full  soul 
must  seek  sympathy  elsewhere.  I  will  seek  my  mother, 
kneel  at  her  feet,  and  seek  the  maternal  blessing,  while 
she  tells  me  which  it  is." 

Away  Miss  Eliza  sailed  into  her  mother's  room, 
which  she  entered  with  clasped  hands. 

"  Oh,  mother !  have  you  no  news  for  me  ?"  she  cried, 
falling  on  her  knees  before  the  old  lady,  who  would 
have  been  surprised,  if  any  thing  about  Miss  Eliza 
could  surprise  her — "  spare  these  blushes,  and  tell  me  at 
once." 

"  Well,  Eliza,  it  can  make  no  difference  ;  though,  per 
haps,  it  would  have  been  best  to  have  consulted  with 
your  brother  first." 

"  Then  it  is  positively  true ;  he  is  to  be  consulted ; 
that  point  is  settled.  Oh,  my  heart !  my  heart !  For 
give  me,  mother.  You  said  that  he  was  to  be  consulted  ; 
just  have  pity  on  a  poor  young  creature,  who  sees  her 
fondest  hopes  vibrating  in  the  balance,  and  tell  me  all. 
Come  now." 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,  Eliza ;  nothing,  indeed, 
which  you  must  not  have  expected." 

"I  did— I  did." 

"  Mr.  Gould  came  to  ask  my  consent." 

"  Yes,  yes.     Go  on." 

"  How  impatient  you  are,  Eliza !  He  came  to  ask  my 
consent  to  the  marriage  of  his  nephew  with  Georgiana." 

Miss  Eliza  fell  forward,  with  her  face  in  the  old  lady's 
lap.  She  shook  her  head  violently,  her  shoulders 
heaved,  and  smothered  sobs  broke  out  of  all  this  com 
motion,  like  gusts  of  wind  in  a  storm.  All  at  once  she 
started  up  and  pushed  the  hair  back  from  her  face. 
19 


306         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  I  see — I  see,"  she  cried,  "  he  has  done  this  to  clear 
the  path — to  get  rid  of  a  dangerous  rival.  Noble  man ! 
Splendid  diplomacy !  How  could  I  have  doubted  him? 
Dear  mother,  do  not  look  so  astonished.  I  understand 
all  this  better  than  you  can.  Wait  a  little — wait  a  little, 
and  you  will  know  all."  ^ 

She  arose,  after  delivering  this  mysterious  speech, 
and  went  into  her  own  room,  where  the  pendant  cupid 
was  vibrating  with  sudden  spasms  of  motion,  as  a  cur 
rent  of  wind  swept  over  it  from  an  open  window. 

Down  Miss  Eliza  sat  in  her  cozy  chair,  and,  clasping 
her  hands,  looked  upward,  murmuring — 

"Yes,  yes ;  I  understand  it  all.  He  saw  the  devotion 
of  this  young  man,  and  sought  to  evade  rather  than 
oppose  the  result.  He  knew  that  such  feelings  as 
absorbed  that  young  heart  would  endanger  his  own 
domestic  peace  when  we  were  once  married ;  for  how 
could  this  young  man  look  on  me,  the  happy  and  fondly 
cherished  bride  of  another,  and  not  allow  his  feelings  of 
disappointment  and  regret  to  break  forth?  Besides, 
there  must  have  been  great  dread  of  his  success — not 
that  Mr.  Gould,  the  elder,  need  have  feared.  My  soul 
always  lifted  itself  above  mere  youth  and  good  looks ; 
but  he  was  wise  to  sweep  this  young  man  from  his  path. 
Poor  Georgiana  !  compelled  to  take  up  with  the  rejected 
suitor  of  another  !  Of  course,  it  will  be  a  marriage  of 
convenience — the  bridegroom  will  always  have  his  memo 
ries  ;  but  I  will  keep  out  of  the  way ;  far  be  it  from  me 
to  render  him  unhappy  by  forcing  the  contrast  between 
what  he  has  lost  and  what  he  has  married  upon  him. 
As  his  uncle's  wife  I  will  be  forbearing,  generous,  and 
dignified.  If  he  should  ever  attempt  to  allude  to  the 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        307 

hopes  that  his  uncle  has  just  quenched  by  this  masterly 
stroke  of  policy,  I  will  assert  all  the  womanly  grandeur 
of  my  nature,  and  wither  him  with  a  look  half  of  pity, 
half  of  indignation." 

Here  Miss  Eliza  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  folded  both 
hands  over  her  bosom,  and,  closing  her  eyes,  fell  into 
one  of  those  soft,  sweet  reveries,  which  poets  have  called 
"  Love's  Young  Dream;"  her  feet  rested  on  the  ottoman 
cushion  which  usually  performed  a  prominent  part  in 
these  solitary  tableaux.  The  cupid  sailed  to  and  fro 
over  her  head ;  the  crimson  cushions  of  her  chair  would 
have  reflected  the  color  on  her  cheeks  but  for  a  counter 
tint,  a  little  less  vivid,  but  quite  as  permanent,  which 
baffled  what  might  have  been  an  artistic  effect.  In  this 
position  we  leave  Miss  Eliza  rich  in  expectations,  which 
no  disappointment  could  extinguish. 

Meantime,  Georgie  ran  up  to  her  grandmother's  room, 
threw  herself  into  those  outstretched  arms  and  began  to 
cry,  one  would  think  just  to  be  hushed  and  comforted 
with  those  soft  words,  and  soft  kisses,  which  came  from 
the  old  lady's  lips  like  dew  upon  a  flower. 

"  What  did  he  say,  grandmamma?" 

"  Every  thing  that  was  sweet  and  kind,  darling  !" 

"  And  you  told  him " 

"  That  I  would  ask  my  grandchild  if  she  loved  this 
young  man  dearly  with  all  her  heart  and  soul." 

"  With  all  her  heart,  and  her  soul  of  souls,  tell  him 
.she  said  that,  grandmamma." 

"And  that  she  loves  no  one  else  ?" 

"No  one,  grandmamma,  in  this  wide,  wide  world." 

"  Shall  I  say  that  she  has  never  loved  any  one  else, 
dear?" 


308        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

Georgie's  face  was  crimson  when  she  lifted  her  head 
and  looked  clearly  into  that  rather  anxious  face. 

"  He  will  not  ask  that,  because  I  told  him  all  about  it 
myself." 

The  old  lady  kissed  that  beautiful,  honest  face. 

"That  is  right,  my  dear." 

"  And  he  did  not  care  in  the  least ;  said  the  first' love 
of  a  girl  was  usually  half  fancy  and  half  nonsense  ;  that 
a  heart  was  sometimes  like  fruit,  which  is  never  really 
ripe  till  the  frost  gives  it  a  bloom ;  and  a  good  deal  more 
which  I  cannot  repeat,  but  love  to  remember." 

"  Then  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  ask  God  to  bless  you 
both !" 

"But  you  have  told  me  nothing.  Is  the  old  gentle 
man  pleased?" 

"  Yes,  delighted.  I  never  saw  him  so  well  satisfied 
in  my  life." 

"You!     Why,  grandmamma,  did  you  ever  see  him 

before  ?" 

The  old  lady  smiled,  but  answered  nothing  to  the 
purpose.  She  only  said,  "Yes,  indeed,  he  is  greatly 
pleased ;  and  says  that  there  is  not  a  girl  in  Philadel 
phia  that  he  would  have  preferred  to  my  little  grand 
daughter." 

"Did  he  say  that?  How  very  kind  of  him  I  But, 
grandmamma,  what  do  you  think  Aunt  Eliza " 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  know,  my  dear.  She  is  so  apt  to  make 
these  mistakes ;  but  I  have  told  her." 

"  Oh,  I  am  glad  of  that !     Did  she  want  to  kill  me  ?" 

"  Far  from  that,  Georgie  ;  but  we  will  not  talk  of  her. 
It  makes  me  sad." 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPHANS.        309 

"  But  you  will  not  think  of  any  thing  which  can  do 
that;  for  I  want  you  to  be  splendid  when,  when " 

"  When  you  are  married  ?" 

"Yes,  grandmamma." 

After  the  blushes  had  left  Georgie's  face,  a  shade  of 
sadness  stole  over  it,  which  the  old  lady  observed. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  darling  ?" 

"Nothing,  grandmamma.  Only  I  am  so  sorry  for 
Anna  Burns." 

"  Indeed !     What  about  her  ?" 

"  She  seems  so  unhappy !" 

"Why?" 

"Ah!  I  had  forgotten.  It  is  not  my  place  to  talk 
about  Ajina  Burns  ;  perhaps  she  is  not  so  very  unhappy, 
after  all.  Only — only  I  do  wish  somebody  who  knows 
how  would  comfort  her  ;  that  is,  advise  with  her." 

"What  if  I  call  upon  them  in  their  new  house, 
Georgie  ?  How  would  that  do  ?" 

*_"  Splendid!     I   am   sure   she   would   tell  you  every 
thing.     When  will  you  go?" 

"  Well,  suppose  we  say  to-morrow  evening?" 

"  That  is  capital !  I  will  go  with  you  and  talk  with 
Mrs.  Burns,  while  you  take  up  Anna." 

"  That  will  do,  perhaps.  I  shall  invite  a  few  friends 
to  visit  them  in  their  new  house.  What  if  we  give  them 
a  surprise  party  ?" 

"  Oh,  how  delightful !" 

"  Invite  all  their  friends,  and  give  them  a  little 
feast!" 

"Oh,  grandmamma!  they  haven't  but  one  friend  in 
the  world  beside  us  and  the  Savage  family ;  and  I'm 
afraid  it  would  be  unpleasant  for  them  to  meet." 


810        THE   SOLDIER'S   ORPHANS. 

"  Still  we  must  invite  them.  I  will  send  a  note  to 
Mrs.  Savage,  and  ask  her  to  bring  Horace." 

"  It  might  do;  but  I  should  not  dare  myself." 

"  Very  likely.  So  leave  that  to  me.  Mistakes  in  an 
old  woman  are  soon  forgiven  !" 

"  Yes,  I  will  leave  it  to  you.  Nobody  ever  did  things 
so  nicely." 

"  Now  about  this  other  woman,  for  I  suppose  it  is  a 
woman  whom  you  speak  of  as  their  friend  ?" 

"  Yes,  of  course,  it  is  a  woman.  Such  a  strange  crea 
ture,  too,  I'm  sure  you  would  be  surprised  to  see  her, 
knowing  how  good  she  is.  When  Anna  and  her  grand 
mother  were  so  very  poor,  she  let  the  rent  run  on, 
month  after  month,  never  asking  for  it,  but  growing 
kinder  and  kinder  every  day.  More  than  that,  she 
seemed  to  find  out  by  magic  when  they  had  nothing  to 
eat  in  the  house,  and  sent  up  money  and  a  wholesome 
meal  when  they  were  almost  crying  with  hunger." 

"  Georgiana,"  said  Mrs.  Halstead,  "  that  was  a  good 
woman.  Invite  her." 

"  But  she  is  rough  as  a  chestnut-bur." 

"No  matter." 

"And  used  to  scold  them  sometimes." 

"  No  matter." 

"  She  takes  in  slop-work." 

"All  the  better." 

"And  fries  her  own  dinner  on  the  little  stove  in  her 
room.  I  have  heard  it  simmering  twenty  times." 

"  But  when  these  good  people  needed  it,  she  divided 
her  dinner  with  them."- 

"  Indeed,  she  did  ;  though  the  agent  was  tormenting 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        311 

her  about  the  rent  all  the  time ;  and  she  is  heavily  in 
debt  to  him  now." 

"  Georgiana,  invite  that  woman — I  admire  her.  I 
respect  her,  coarse  or  not,  ugly  or  handsome,  I  respect 
her." 

"And  so  do  I,  grandmamma.  Only  I  thought  it  best 
to  tell  you.  Besides,  she  dresses  so,  and  has  such 
coarse  hair,  that  anybody  but  you  might  not  see  the 
good  through  it  all — Mrs.  Savage  particularly." 

"  She  would.     Mrs.  Savage  is  a  noble  woman." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that  for  Anna's  sake." 

"And  this  person  you  speak  of  is  a  noble  woman ; 
such  people  always  get  together  somehow." 

"  I  hope  so.     Of  course,  if  you  say  it." 

"  There  now,  dear,  go  to  this  woman  and  give  our  in 
vitation.  Here  is  money  for  the  entertainment.  Let  it 
be  perfect.  She  will  help  you,  I  dare  say.  If  any  thing 
is  left,  she  must  keep  it,  understand.  Now  good-morn 
ing.  Go  at  once." 

Georgie  ran  up  stairs  for  her  bonnet,  and  was  soon  m 
the  old  tenement-house  talking  with  the  landlady,  whom 
she  found  hard  at  work,  with  a  clothes-basket  half  full 
of  unfinished  work  by  her  side,  and  a  heap  of  sailor's 
jackets  piled  up  on  the  table  close  at  hand.  She  had  a 
well-worn  press-board  lying  across  her  lap,  and  was 
pressing  a  stubborn  seam  upon  it  with  a  heavy  flat-iron, 
upon  which  she  leaned  resolutely  with  one  elbow,  while 
she  .held  the  seam  open  with  two  fingers  of  her  other 
hand.  This  was  hot  work,  and  the  perspiration  was 
pouring  off  her  face  as  she  worked. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  curt  good  humor,  "  hard  at 
work  as  ever ;  hot  though,  and  dragging  on  the  strength  ; 


312    THE  SOLDIEB'S  OEPHANS. 

especially  when  one  sets  at  it  steady  from  daylight  till 
eleven  o'clock  at  night." 

"  But  why  do  you  work  so  hard,  there  is  only  your 
self  to  support  ?" 

"  That's  what  every  lady  says  ;  but,  law,  what  do  they 
know  about  it  ?  Debt  cries  louder  than  children ;  they 
do  give  up  sometimes,  but  agents  never  do,  especially 
them  as  let  tenement-houses  for  men  who  are  too  re 
fined  to  crush  out  the  poor  with  their  own  hands,  but 
take  the  money  without  asking  how  it  has  been  wrung 
out  of  our  hard  earnings,  piling  the  extra  per  centage — 
which  pays  the  agent  for  oppressing  his  tenants — on  us. 
Then  they  talk  about  heavy  taxes,  as  if  we  did  not  pay 
them  and  all  the  rest  with  our  hard  work.  When  the 
Common  Council,  and  the  State,  or  Congress,  put  taxes 
on  them,  they  sit  still  in  their  comfortable  parlors,  and 
meet  it  all  by  raising  the  rents,  which  we  pay  like  this." 

The  woman  swept  the  perspiration  from  her  forehead 
with  one  hand,  which  she  held  out,  all  moist  and  tremb 
ling  from  the  pressure  it  had  given  to  the  iron.  The 
front  finger  was  honey-combed  by  the  point  of  her 
coarse  needle ;  the  palm  was  coarse  and  hard  from  con 
stant  toil. 

"  These  are  tax-marks,"  she  said,  bitterly;  "  some  of 
our  people  don't  understand  it — but  I  do  ;  for,  poor  or 
not,  I  will  take  the  newspaper.  It's  oppression — that's 
what  it  is.  If  the  agent  would  have  been  a  little  easy 
with  me,  I  might  have  done  a  world  of  good  in  this 
identical  house ;  but  it  wasn't  in  me  to  turn  a  family 
out  of  doors  when  they  couldn't  pay  up  to  the  minute ; 
and  so,  in  trying  to  save  them,  I  got  in  debt.  If  he 
turns  me  out — and  he  threatened  that  this  very  morn- 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        313 

ing  —  who  will  stand  between  him  and  the  poor  families 
in  my  rooms  ?  I  tell  you  what,  Miss,  it  wasn't  to  make 
money  I  took  the  house,  but  to  keep  it  respectable  and 
help  my  poor  fellow-creturs  along.  There  never  was 
any  profit  in  it  ;  and  now  I'm  likely  to  be  turned  out 
myself.  It's  hard,  miss  —  it  is  hard  !" 

"  Indeed,  it  does  seem  very  cruel  ;  but  I  suppose  the 
man  who  has  money  can  be  a  tyrant  if  he  likes,  in  spite 
of  the  law.  I'll  talk  with  grandmamma  about  this  ;  per 
haps  she  can  help  you.  Just  now  I  come  to  ask,  that 
is,  to  invite  you,  to  join  us  in  a  little  party  we  are  go 
ing  to  give  the  Burns  family." 

"  What  !  they  give  a  party  ?" 

"  No  —  we  ;  that  is,  grandmamma  and  a  friend  or  two 
are  going  to  surprise  them." 

"  Big-bugs  —  that  is,  gentlemen  and  ladies  ?" 

"Yes,  I  —  I   believe    so,"   said    Georgie,   with   great 


"  Then  I  can't  go—  I  shouldn't  feel  at  home." 
"  But   I  want   your   help   in   getting   things  ready. 
Grandmamma  has  left  every  thing  for  you  and  I  to  ar 
range.     Here  is  plenty  of  money,  but  I  have  no  idea 
how  to  go  about  spending  it." 

"Oh  I  if  that's  what  you  want  of  me,  I'm  on  hand. 
Haven't  had  a  play  spell  these  ten  years.  It'll  do  me 
good." 

"  I  own  it  will  —  can  you  spare  the  time  now?" 
"  I'll  put  on  my  things  right  off,"  cried  the  landlady, 
standing  her  press-board  in  a  corner,  and  planting  the 
hot  iron  in  a  safe  place.     "  Just  wait  a  minute  while  I 
comb  out  my  hair  and  put  on  another  dress." 

With  this,  the  good  woman  let  down  a  hank  of  coarse 


314        THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

hair,  and  hatcheled  it  vigorously  with  a  coarse  horn- 
comb  ;  then  she  gathered  it  up  in  a  hard  twist,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  change  her  dress,  for  which  she  substitued  a 
gorgeous  delaine,  and  a  blanket-shawl  warmed  up  with 
stripes  of  scarlet. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  tying  the  strings  of  an  immense 
straw-bonnet,  that  stood  up  from  her  face  like  a  horse 
shoe,  "  I'm  ready  for  any  thing  you  want  of  me." 

Georgie  arose,  took  up  her  parasol  of  silk  point-lace 
and  carved  ivory,  of  which  she  felt  a  little  ashamed, 
and  followed  the  landlady  out. 

"  There  is  one  thing,"  she  said,  when  they  reached  the 
side-walk,  "  which  you  must  help  me  arrange  ;  while  we 
are  making  preparations  in  the  house,  they  must  be  got 
away." 

"  Oh !  I'll  mange  that  easy  enough,"  answered  the 
woman.  "  I'll  tell  them  that  I  am  obliged  to  go  out, 
and  can't  spare  the  time  from  my  work.  They'll  both 
offer  to  come  round  and  help  me  through.  It  wont  be 
the  first  time — -just  leave  that  to  me.  I  think  they'll 
like  to  sit  in  the  old  room ;  some  of  their  things  are 
there  yet." 

This  being  decided  on,  Georgie  and  her  companion 
entered  upon  the  business  in  hand  with  great  energy ; 
and  the  young  girl  went  home  at  dusk  perfectly  satis 
fied  with  the  progress  of  things,  as  regarded  the  sur 
prise-party. 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.         315 
CHAPTER  XXIY. 

CONCLUSION. 

THE  next  day  old  Mrs.  Burns  sat  in  the  little  family- 
room  up  stairs,  quite  alone,  for  Anna  had  gone  round  to 
their  old  home  to  see  their  kind  friend,  and  the  boys 
proceeded  to  their  work,  as  usual,  immediately  after 
breakfast.  She  was  reading ;  for  the  necessity  of  con 
stant  toil  had  been  taken  from  her,  and  with  this 
pleasant  home,  many  of  her  old  lady-like  wants  had 
come  back,  asking  for  a  place  in  her  life. 

So  the  old  lady  sat  reading  near  the  window,  looking 
neat  and  tranquil,  as  if  care  had  never  visited  her. 
Quantities  of  soft,  fine  muslin  were  folded  over  her 
bosom,  and  softer  lace  fell  over  her  calm,  old  forehead, 
from  which  the  hair  was  parted  in  all  its  snowy  white 
ness.  Her  dress  of  black  alpaca,  bright  as  silk,  and  of 
voluminous  fulness,  swept  down  from  the  crimson 
cushions  of  the  easy-chair,  and  covered  the  stool  on 
which  her  foot  rested.  She  formed  a  lovely  picture  of 
old  age,  sitting  in  that  cool  light,  with  the  leaves  twink 
ling  their  shadows  around  her,  and  softening  the  whole 
picture  into  perfect  quiet. 

As  she  sat  thus  absorbed  in  her  book,  the  gate  opened, 
and  an  old  man  came  up  the  garden-walk.  She  lifted 
her  head  and  looked  out,  but  her  glasses  were  on,  and 
she  could  only  see  some  figure  moving  through  the  flow 
ers  with  dreamy  indistinctness.  Then  she  heard  the 
door  open,  and  a  step  in  the  hall — a  step  that  made  her 
heart  leap  till  the  muslin  stirred  like  snow  on  her  bosom. 

Who  could  it  be  ?    Not  one  of  the  boys,  the  step  was 


316        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

too  heavy  for  that ;  perhaps,  that  is,  possibly,  it  might 
be  young  Savage,  coming  to  explain  conduct  that  she 
much  feared  was  breaking  poor  Anna's  heart.  The  pos 
sibility  that  it  might  be  him  kept  her  still.  After  ne 
glecting  them  so  long,  she  would  not  compromise  Anna's 
pride,  by  appearing  eager  to  meet  him ;  so  she  sat,  with 
book  in  hand,  gazing  wistfully  at  the  door  through  her 
spectacles. 

The  door  opened  slowly,  and  old  Mr.  Gould  stood  on 
the  threshold,  where  he  paused  a  moment  gazing  on  her. 

The  old  woman  answered  the  gaze  with  a  half-fright 
ened  look  through  her  spectacles,  then  drew  them  slowly 
off,  as  if  that  could  help  her  vision,  and  stood  up. 

"  Mary !"  said  the  old  man,  coming  toward  her. 
"Mary!" 

The  old  woman  sat  down  again,  helpless  and  tremb 
ling. 

"  Mary,  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?" 

"  Yes,  James,  yes.  I — I  wish  to  speak,  but — but  I 
cannot." 

"  And  why,  Mary  ?  What  have  I  done  ?  What  did 
I  ever  do  that  should  make  you  hate  and  avoid  me  so?" 

"  Hate  !  I  never  hated  you,  James.  At  the  worst,  I 
never  hated  you !" 

"  But  you  left  me — hid  yourself;  kept  my  son  from 
me  all  his  life.  How  could  you  find  the  heart  to  do 
that  ?» 

The  old  lady  sat  upright  in  her  chair ;  a  faint  red 
came  into  her  face — she  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

"  You  speak  as  if  I  had  done  wrong,  James ;  as  if  you 
were  an  innocent  man." 

"  I  speak  as  I  feel,  Mary — as  I  am.     What  fault  had 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        317 

I  committed  which  warranted  the  separation  of  a  life 
time  ?" 

He  questioned  her  almost  sternly ;  but  there  was  a 
quiver  of  wounded  tenderness  in  his  voice  which  made 
that  gentle  old  bosom  swell  with  gathering  tears. 

"Was  it  nothing,"  she  said,  faltering,  in  spite  of  her 
self,  "that  you  left  me  and  married  another  woman  ?" 

"Mary  Gould,  are  you  a  sane  woman  ?" 

"I  saw  her  with  my  own  eyes;  heard  her  speak; 
watched  her  when  she  read  your  letters.  Nothing  short 
of  that  would  have  driven  me  from  you." 

"  You  saw  all  this  ?     When— how  ?" 

"At  your  warehouse  in  H .  She  kissed  your 

letter  ;  she  told  me  that  you  were  her  husband — all  the 
time  I  held  our  boy  by  the  hand  ;  he  heard  it.  What 

could  I  do  ?  Arraign  my  husband  before  the  courts 

disgrace  him  ?  Kill  an  innocent  woman,  perhaps  ?  I 
loved  you  too  well  for  that ;  so  went  away  with  my 
child.  I  wished  myself  dead,  but  even  wretched  women 
cannot  die  whem  they  wish.  I  was  young  and  healthy  ; 
grief  tortured  me,  but  it  could  not  quite  kill  the  strong 
life  in  my  bosom.  I  had  the  boy,  and  struggled  for  his 
sake.  We  went  away  into  another  State,  and  in  the 
heart  of  a  great  city  buried  ourselves.  I  gave  you  up. 
I  gave  up  your  name  and  worked  on  through  life  alone. 
But  God  kept  my  son,  and  gave  me  grandchildrent ;  the 
wound  in  my  life  was  almost  healed.  Why  come  at  this 
late  day  to  shake  the  last  sands  of  a  hard  life  with  old 
memories  ?  I  have  forgiven  you  long  ago,  James — long 
ago." 

The  old  man  listened  to  her  patiently.  Once  or 
twice  he  started  and  checked  some  eager  words  as  they 


318        THE   SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

sprang  to  his  lips  ;  but  he  restrained  himself  and  heard 
her  through.  Then  he  reached  forth  a  trembling  hand 
and  drew  a  chair  close  to  her  side,  bending  toward  her 
as  he  seated  himself. 

"  Mary,  did  you  believe  this  base  thing  of  me  ?" 

"  Believe  it  ?     God  help  me,  I  knew  it  I" 

"  Mary  Gould,  it  is  false,  every  word  of  it.  I  have 
never  loved  any  woman  but  you.  I  never  had,  and 
never  will  have  another  wife. 

The  little  old  woman  held  out  her  two  hands  in  piti 
ful  appeal. 

"  Oh,  James,  don't  1  I  am  an  old  woman  and  cannot 
bear  it.  Only  ask  me  to  forgive  you,  and  I  will.  In 
deed,  I  will." 

"  Mary,  my  poor  deceived  wife,  there  is  nothing  be 
tween  us  to  forgive.  I  do  not  know  how  this  terrible 
idea  has  been  fastened  on  your  mind  ;  but,  as  God  is  my 
judge,  no  husband  was  ever  more  faithful  to  a  wife  than 
I  have  been  to  you." 

He  held  her  two  hands  firmly.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to 
his  and  found  them  full  of  tears. 

"  James,  James,  is  it  I  that  have  clone  wrong  ?"  The 
old  woman  fell  down  upon  her  knees  before  him,  and 
pressed  her  two  withered  hands  on  his  bosom.  "  Have 
I  done  wrong — and  is  it  you  who  must  forgive  me  ?  Oh, 
my  husband !  I  am  so  thankful  that  it  is  me  1" 

He  lifted  her  back  to  the  easy-chair,  and  drew  that 
sweet,  old  face,  with  its  crown  of  snowy  hair,  to  his 
bosom;  his  tears  fell  over  her;  his  hands  shook  like 
withered  leaves  as  they  tenderly  folded  her  to  his 
heart. 


THE    SOLDIEK'S    ORPHANS.        319 

She  believed  in  his  truth;  and  that  sweet,  solemn 
love,  which  is  so  beautiful  in  old  age,  filled  her  heart 
with  a  joy  that  no  young  bride  may  evei  hope  to 
know. 

"  We  are  old  and  close  to  the  end  of  our  lives,  Mary; 
but  God  has  given  us  to  each  other  again,  and  the  best 
part  of  our  existence  will  be  spent  together." 

"  But  I  Ifave  cast  away  our  youth,  trampled  down 
your  mid-age ;  hid  our  son  away  from  you,  and  now  he 
is  dead — he  is  dead  !"  she  cried,  with  anguish,  the  more 
piteous  because  her  utterance  was  choked  by  the  tremor 
of  old  age. 

"  But  you  have  suffered  more  than  I  have,  for,  during 
all  this  time  till  the  war  commenced,  I  thought  both 
you  and  my  son  dead ;  while  you,  knowing  me  alive, 
thought  me  a  guilty  man.  Poor  Mary !  your  unhappi- 
ness  has  been  greater  than  mine.' 

"  Thank  God  for  that  1"  she  said,  meekly. 

"  And  now  it  must  be  my  pleasure  to  lead  you  down 
the  path  which  is  lost  in  the  valley  and  shadow.  You 
need  me  now  more  than  ever,  and  I  need  you,  Mary,  as 
we  grow  weaker  and  older ;  such  companionship  as  you 
and  I  can  give  each  other  becomes  the  sweetest  and 
most  precious  thing  in  life.  Do  not  cry,  Mary ;  but 
rather  let  me  see  if  the  old  smile  lives  for  me  yet." 

She  looked  up,  and  the  wrinkles  about  her  mouth 
softened  into  the  sweetest  expression  you  ever  saw  on 
a  human  face. 

"  God  has  been  very  good  to  us,"  she  said ;  "  but  for 
our  son's  death  I  could,  indeed,  smile.  Now  I  feel  as 
if  I  had  robbed  you  of  him." 

"  Never  think  that  again.     But  remember  that  it  is  a 


320        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

good  thing  to  have  loved  ones  waiting  for  us  on  the 
other  side.     I  shall  see  our  son;  of  that  be  certain." 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  shall  both  see  him ;  and  his  children — 
have  you  seen  them?" 

"Yes;   the   lad   Robert   is   with  me  —  a  fine  little 
fellow." 

"Anna,  too?" 

"  Pretty  as  you  were  long  ago,  and  I  think  as  good." 

"  But  Joseph,  dear  little  Joseph,  you  must  love  him 
above  all ;  he  is  the  very  image  of  his  father." 

"  I  have  seen  him,  too.     I  saw  you  all  sitting  in  a 
picture  together." 

"And  recognized  us?" 

"At  the  first  glance  ;  for  then  I  knew  that  my  wife 
was  alive.  More — after  our  son  went  to  the  war,  he 
wrote  to  me,  told  me  that  his  mother  was  living,  and 
besought  me  to  find  her,  should  he  fall,  and  save  his 
family  from  want.  He  gave  no  name  but  his  own — no 
address  ;  but  referred  me  to  a  gentleman  in  New  York, 
who  would  tell  me  where  to  find  you.  This  letter  was 
sent  from  the  army,  and  met  with  the  usual  delays  be 
fore  it  reached  me.  Only  two  days  before  I  saw  you  in 
that  picture  did  I  know  of  your  existence.  I  tele 
graphed  to  the  person  who  held  your  address,  and  was 
answered  that  he  was  away  from  home.  Then  I  saw 
you  for  that  one  moment,  and  you  were  lost  to  me 
again.  I  searched  for  you  for  days  to  no  avail.  Then 
I  went  to  New  York ;  the  man  I  sought  had  gone  to 
Europe.  I  followed  him,  learned  the  name  you  have 
borne,  and  where  you  could  be  found — learned  that  our 
grandchild  was  already  under  my  care.  But  I  am  an 
old  man,  Mary,  and  have  learned  how  to  wait.  Did 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        321 

you  know  that  this  house  is  mine — that  I  sent  you  here  ; 
that  Anna  is  my  friend  ;  and  that  little  Joseph  has  made 
a  small  fortune  in  selling  me  papers  ?" 

"I  know  that  I  am  this  moment  the  happiest  old 
woman  that  ever  lived." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that.  If  I  can  help  it,  Mary,  you  shall 
never  be  unhappy  again.  We  will  enter  on  our  second 
childhood  with  tranquil  hearts ;  knowing  so  well  what 
loneliness  is,  we  shall  feel  the  value  of  loving  com 
panionship  as  few  old  people  ever  did.  Now  tell  me 
how  it  was  that  the  terrible  mistake  which  separated  us 
arose." 

She  told  him  all,  exactly  as  she  had  related  the  facts 
to  Anna  only  a  short  time  before. 

"  I  can  understand  now,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  This  lady  was  my  brother's  wife  ;  he  had  just  come 
over  from  England,  and  took  the  western  trip  with  me. 
The  poor  young  man  never  came  back,  but  died  in  the 
wilderness.  It  was  his  wife  you  saw  ;  his  letters  she 
was  reading." 

"  Oh,  foolish,  wicked  woman  that  I  was,  so  readily  to 
believe  ill  of  you!"  cried  the  old  lady. 

"  Do  not  blame  yourself.  The  evidence,  false  as  it 
was,  might  have  deceived  any  one.  You  did  not  know 
that  my  brother  was  in  the  country,  for  he  came  on  me 
unannounced.  It  was  a  natural  mistake,  and  you  acted 
nobly.  It  has  cost  us  dear,  but  we  will  not  spend  the 
precious  time  left  to  us  in  regretting  it." 

"  Thank  heaven !  I  had  no  bitterness  ;  it  was  for  your 
sake  I  hid  myself." 

"  Bitterness  !     No,  no  !     It  was  for  me — and  when 
you  thought  rne  unworthy.     I  shall  never  forget  that. 
20 


322         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 


let  us  put  all  these  things  aside  and  think  only  of 
the  present." 

"  Oh  !  that  is  so  beautiful  I"  she  said,  looking  around, 
but  turning  her  eyes  on  him  at  last.  "After  all,  James, 
you  do  not  look  so  very  old." 

He  laughed  gayly,  and  would  have  smoothed  her  hair 
in  the  old  fashion,  but  feeling  the  lace  of  her  cap,  de 
sisted,  ending  off  his  laugh  with  a  little  sigh,  which  she 
heard  with  a  sad  sort  of  feeling,  as  if  the  ghost  of  her 
youth  were  passing  by. 

"  This  is  a  pleasant  place,"  said  the  old  man,  looking 
out  into  the  balcony,  where  gleams  of  sunshine  were  at 
play  with  the  leaves.  "Do  you  know,  Mary,  I  have 
never  seen  a  place  that  seemed  so  like  home  since  we 
parted  in  England." 

She  smiled  pleasantly,  and  holding  out  her  withered 
little  hand,  and  blushing  like  a  girl,  said, 

"  Then  stay  here  with  us.     It  is  so  pleasant  here." 

"And  my  old  castle  is  so  gloomy.  Yes,  Mary,  I  am 
coming  home  to  help  take  care  of  the  grandchildren. 
But  I  must  go  now,  or  they  will  catch  me  here  earlier 
than  I  wish.  Yes,  yes;  it  is  a  pleasant  little  home." 

He  went  out  suddenly,  the  old  lady  thought  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  and  she  stole  into  the  balcony  to  watch 
him  as  a  girl  of  twenty  might.  She  saw  him  pick  a  rose 
bud  and  put  it  into  his  buttonhole,  smiling  to  himself 
all  the  while.  Then  she  stole  away  and  went  into  her 
bedroom  ;  and  there  Anna  found  her,  when  she  came 
home,  upon  her  knees,  and  with  such  benign  joy  on  her 
face  that  the  young  girl  closed  the  door,  and  went  off 
on  tiptoe,  as  if  she  had  disturbed  an  angel. 

After  awhile  the  old  lady  came  out  ;  but  judging  of 


THE    SOLDIER'S    OEPHANS.         323 

her  husband's  wishes  by  that  intuition  which  needs  no 
instruction,  she  said  nothing  of  his  visit,  but  waited  for 
him  to  explain,  as  best  pleased  him. 

"  Grandmother,"  said  Anna,  "  you  and  I  are  wanted 
at  the  old  house.  Our  friend  is  driven  beyond  any 
thing  with  her  work,  but  must  go  out  especially  this 
afternoon.  Will  you  go  with  me  and  help  her  sewing 
forward.  I  have  set  out  the  boy's  supper." 

The  old  lady  consented  at  once,  and  put  on  that  soft 
woollen  shawl  with  a  smile,  knowing  who  it  was  that  had 
given  it  to  her.  It  was  rather  warm  for  the  season,  but 
she  would  not  have  gone  without  it  for  the  world. 

That  night  there  was  a  great  commotion  in  the  cot 
tage,  in  wrhich  the  boys  joined,  in  high  excitement,  with 
out  understanding  any  thing  about  it,  except  that  a 
surprise  was  intended  for  grandmamma  and  Anna.     A 
long  table  was  spread  in  the  dining-room ;  china,  glass, 
and  silver,  unknown  to  the  house  before,  glittered  and 
sparkled  upon  it ;  flowers  glowed  up  from  the  sparkling 
glass,  and  flung  their  rich  shadows  across  the  snow- 
white  tablecloth ;   fruit  lay  bedded  in  the  flowers,  fill 
ing  the  vases  with  a  rich  variety,  which  Robert  and 
Joseph  kept  rearranging  every  instant.  Then  came  plates 
full  of  plump  little  birds,  partridges,  and  so  many  dain 
ties,  that  the  boys  got  tired  of  naming  them.    But  when 
the  table  was  entirely  spread,  the  effect  was  so  magnifi 
cent  that  they  danced  around  it,  clapping  their  hands 
in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.     Up  stairs  the  rooms  were 
radiant  with  flowers,  and  a  rich  perfume  came  up  from 
the  gardens,  scenting  every  thing  as  with  the  breath  of 
paradise. 

Scarcely  were  the  rooms  ready  when  the  company 


324        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

came  in.  First,  Georgie  greeted  her  stately  grand 
mother,  Miss  Eliza,  and  a  fine-looking  gentleman,  whom 
she  introduced  as  her  father.  Then  came  another 
stately-looking  person,  who  walked  in  with  Mrs.  Savage 
on  his  arm  ;  and  after  them  appeared  Horace  Savage, 
natural  and  pleasant  as  ever,  chatting  merrily  with 
young  Gould,  with  whom  he  walked  up  the  garden. arm- 
in-arm,  while  Georgie  was  peeping  at  them  from  one  of 
the  balconies.  When  these  persons  were  all  assembled, 
our  landlady  of  the  tenement-house  proclaimed  her  de 
termination  of  going  home  at  once  and  bringing  Mrs. 
Burns  and  Anna  up  to  their  surprise.  Just  twenty 
minutes  from  the  time  she  left  the  door  they  were  to 
turn  every  light  in  the  house  down,  except  that  in  the 
hall.  Robert  and  Joseph  were  to  take  their  posts  in 
the  parlors  and  take  charge  of  the  chandeliers.  In 
short,  every  thing  was  ready,  and  the  little  parlors  took 
a  festive  aspect  exhilarating  to  behold. 

Just  as  Mrs.  Burns  and  Anna  came  in  sight  of  the 
house,  following  the  landlady,  who  insisted  on  seeing 
them  home,  old  Mr.  Gould  joined  them,  and  quietly 
gave  his  arm  to  the  old  lady.  Anna  was  a  little  sur 
prised,  but  they  were  close  by  the  gate,  and  she  had 
not  much  time  to  notice  it. 

"  The  boys  have  got  tired  of  waiting  and  have  gone 
out,"  she  said,  regretfully.  "  I  wish  we  had  come  home 
before  dark." 

They  were  in  the  hall  now,  the  house  was  still  as 
death.  There  seemed  something  strange  about  this, 
which  made  Anna  look  anxious  as  she  took  off  her 
things. 

"  Walk  in,"  she  said,  opening  the  parlor  door,  through 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        325 

which  Mr.  Gould  led  the  old  lady.  That  instant  a  blaze 
of  light  broke  over  the  room,  revealing  bewildering 
masses  of  flowers,  and  a  group  of  smiling  faces  all 
turned  upon  the  new-comers. 

Robert  and  Joseph  jumped  down,  after  turning  on 
the  light,  and  softly  clapped  their  hands,  unable  to  res 
train  the  exuberance  of  their  spirits.  But  Anna  saw 
nothing  of  this.  A  voice  was  whispering  in  her  ear  ;  a 
hand  clasped  hers  with  a  force  that  sent  the  blood  up 
from  her  heart  in  rosy  waves. 

"  My  mother  has  told  me  all ;  they  have  consented," 
he  whispered. 

She  did  not  answer ;  for  Mr.  Gould  had  led  her  grand 
mother  into  the  midst  of  the  room,  and  was  welcoming 
all  these  people  as  if  the  house  had  been  his  own. 

"  This  lady,"  he  said,  gently  touching  the  little  hand 
on  his  arm,  "  is  a  little  agitated  just  now,  and  leaves  me 
to  welcome  you ;  but  first  let  me  present  her.  She  is 
my  wife,  and  has  been  rather  more  than  forty  years 
These  boys  and  that  girl  yonder  are  my  grandchildren 
Their  father,  my  only  son,  was  killed  in  battle.  For 
many  years,  by  no  fault  on  either  side,  I  have  been 
separated  from  my  family.  Thank  God  !  we  are  united 
now.  Gould,  come  and  kiss  your  aunt.  Anna,  have  I 
performed  my  promise  ?" 

Anna  sprang  toward  him,  and  threw  both  arms 
around  his  neck. 

-  "  My  own,  own  grandfather !"  she  cried,  lavishing 
such  kisses  on  him  as  fatherly  old  men  love  to  receive 
from  rosy  lips. 

He  returned  her  kisses,  patting  her  on  the  head  as  he 
gently  put  her  away. 


826        THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

"  James,  James,  I  have  seen  that  face  before.  Who 
is  this  lady  ?"  said  Mrs.  Burns,  clinging  to  his  arm,  as 
old  Mrs.  Halstead  came  up  with  her  congratulations. 

"Yes,  Mary,  this  lady  was  my  brother's  wife — not 
the  mother  of  this  young  fellow.  His  father  came  over 
later  ;  but  she  is  the  lady  whom  you  once  saw." 

"And  one  who  hopes  to  see  her  many  a  time  after 
this ;  especially  as  she  has  been  the  means  of  reconcil 
ing  me  with  this  unreasonable  man,  who  never  would 
have  forgiven  me  for  marrying  again,  but  for  the 
interest  I  took  in  this  family.  For  years  and  years, 
clear  lady,  we  had  been  strangers  to  each  other.  This 
is,  in  all  respects,  a  family  reunion." 

With  this  little  speech,  the  handsome  old  lady  held 
out  her  hand ;  but  Mrs.  Gould,  remembering  all  she  had 
clone  for  her,  instead  of  shaking  the  hand  reached  forth 
her  arms,  and  the  two  old  women  embraced  with  tender 
dignity,  which  filled  more  than  one  pair  of  bright  eyes 
with  mist. 

The  old  man  stood  by  well  pleased  and  smiling.  He 
saw  that  young  Gould  had  retreated  toward  Georgiana ; 
and  that  Savage  was  bending  over  the  chair  to  which 
Anna  had  gone. 

"  There  is  no  objection  in  that  quarter,  I  fancy  !"  he 
said,  looking  at  Mrs.  Halstead,  and  nodding  toward  the 
young  couple. 

"He  already  has  our  consent,"  answered  Mrs.  Ihil- 
stead,  smiling. 

"As  for  these  young  people,"  said  the  old  man,  ap 
proaching  Anna,  "it  is  but  just  to  say  that  Horace 
Savage  had  his  parents'  sanction  to  his  marriage  with 
my  granddaughter,  before  they  knew  that  she  would 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS.        327 

inherit  one  fourth  of  my  fortune ;  the  other  portion 
going  in  equal  parts,  to  my  nephew  and  grandsons. 
Where  have  the  little  fellows  hid  themselves  ?" 

"I  am  here,  grandfather,"  said  little  Joseph,  lifting 
his  beautiful  eyes  to  the  old  man's  face,  and  stealing  a 
hold  on  his  grandmother's  hand  as  he  spoke ;  "  and  so 
is  Robert,  only  he's  so  surprised." 

"  I'm  so  glad,  you  mean,"  said  Robert,  coming  into 
the  light ;  "  for  now  Josey  can  go  to  school ;  and  Anna 
— hurra  for  sister  Anna !" 

When  the  bustle,  which  followed  this  speech,  died 
away,  it  was  followed  by  a  hysterical  sob,  piteous  to 
hear,  which  came  from  a  sofa  in  the  little  parlor,  on 
which  Miss  Eliza  had  thrown  herself. 

"What  is  the  matter  ?"  cried  half  a  dozen  voices — 
and  the  sofa  was  instantly  surrounded.  "  What  is  the 
cause  of  this  ?" 

"  Oh !  leave  me  alone  !  leave  me  alone  to  my  desola 
tion  1"  she  cried  ;  "  the  last  link  is  broken ;  there  is  no 
truth — no  honor — no  chivalry  in  the  world  !" 

Old  Mr.  Gould,  as  master  of  the  house,  felt  himself 
called  upon  to  offer  some  consolation  for  the  disappoint 
ment,  which  he  supposed  had  sprung  out  of  her  unreason 
able  hopes  regarding  his  nephew  ;  but  as  he  came  close  to 
her,  she  sprang  up  and  pushed  him  violently  backward. 

"  Touch  me  not,  ingrate  !  household  fiend  !  traitor ! 
You  have  broken  my  heart,  trifled  with  the  affections  of 
an  innocent,  loving,  confiding,  transparent  nature.  Do 
not  dare  to  touch  me.  Turn  those  craven  eyes  on  the 
antiquated  being  that  you  have  preferred  to  my  youth 
and  confiding  innocence." 

She  sat  down,  panting  for  breath,  still  pointing  her 


328         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

finger  at  the  astonished  old  man;  while  her  brother 
stood  appalled,  and  old  Mrs.  Halstead  sat  down  in  pale 
consternation. 

"I  do  not  understand  this,"  said  old  Mr.  Gould, 
looking  dreadfully  perplexed. 

"  I  do,"  whispered  the  nephew,  laughing.  "  It  wasn't 
me,  but  another  chap  she  was  after." 

Just  then  a  sharp  ring  came  to  the  door.  Robert 
opened  it,  and  there  stood  his  early  friend,  the  news 
boy,  with  a  torn  hat  in  his  hand. 

"Excuse  me  for  coming  when  you've  got  company, 
old  fellow;  but  I'm  awfully  stuck — had  my  pockets 
picked.  Look  a-there !  lost  every  cent  I've  got  in  the 
theatre  jest  as  that  new  tragedy  chap  was  a-dying  beau 
tifully  !  Broke  up,  if  you  can't  lend  me  something  to 
start  on  in  the  morning." 

The  boy  hauled  out  a  very  dirty  pocket,  and  shook 
its  emptiness  in  proof  of  the  reality. 

"I  haven't  got  a  dollar  myself." 

"Jest  so.  Can't  be  helped.  I'm  up  a  stump  this 
time  and  no  mistake.  Good-night,  old  fellow." 

"  Stop,  stop  a  minute ;  I'll  ask  my  grandfather.  Come 
back,  I  say." 

The  boy  came  back,  and  stood  with  one  hand  in  the 
rifled  pocket,  waiting. 

"  Grandfather !  grandfather !"  said  Robert,  breathless 
and  eager,  "  I  want  some  of  those  funds  of  my  quarter 
in  advance.  I've  got  a  friend  out  there  in  distress." 

The  old  man  laughed,  everybody  laughed  except 
Miss  Eliza,  who  stopped  sobbing  to  listen,  and  Joseph, 
who  said,  "  Oh,  Robert !  how  can  you  !  He  hasn't  been 
our  grandfather  more  than  an  hour!" 


THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHAN'S.         329 

Robert  heeded  nothing  of  this,  but  drew  his  grand 
father  to  the  door,  and  pointed  out  his  friend. 

"  He  was  good  to  me  once,  sir — good  as  gold.  It  was 
he  who  took  me  to  your  counting-room,  and  recom 
mended  me." 

The  old  man  was  feeling  in  his  pocket.  He  recog 
nized  the  boy. 

"How  much  will  do,  my  boy  ?"  he  said,  in  high  good 
humor. 

"  Say  five — that'll  set  me  up  tip-top." 

The  old  man  handed  him  a  bank-note. 

"Twenty  dollars,  by  golly!"  cried  the  boy,  putting 
his  hat  on  with  a  swing  of  the  arm.  "  Old  gentleman, 
you're  a  trump,  and  he's  a  right  bower !  Good  evening ! 
I'm  set  up  for  life,  I  am !" 

As  Mr.  Gould  was  turning  to  go  in  again,  the  mis 
tress  of  the  tenement-house  passed  him. 

"  Every  thing  is  right,"  she  said.  "  You  wont  want 
me." 

"  But  I  want  you,"  said  Mr.  Gould.  "  No  woman 
who  has  been  the  friend  to  my  wife  that  you  have,  must 
pass  me  without  thanks.  Tell  me,  what  can  I  do  for 
you  ?" 

"  Nothing,  sir ;  that  is,  nothing  in  particular ;  only 
if  you  would  just  tell  that  agent  of  yourn  not  to  be 
quite  so  hard  about  the  rent  of  that  house.  I  shall 
have  to  give  it  up  if  he  is." 

"  What !  do  you  live  in  a  house  of  mine  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  have  these  six  years." 

"  Where  is  it  ?" 

She  told  him. 

"  What  t  that  old  tenement  ?     Come  to  my  office  in 


330         THE    SOLDIER'S    ORPHANS. 

the  morning,  and  I'll  give  you  a  deed  for  it.  Don't 
forget." 

"  Oh,  sir !» 

"  Don't  forget.     You  know  the  place." 

"  Never  fear,  sir ;  I  wont  let  her  forget,"  said  Rob 
ert,  rejoicing  in  his  heart. 

"Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  said  the  old  man, 
entering  the  parlor,  "  let  us  see  what  the  fairies  have 
brought  us  for  supper.  Mr.  Halstead,  will  you  take 
Mrs.  Gould?  Your  mother  and  I  are  good  friends  now 
—I  will  take  her." 

"Miss  Eliza,  shall  I  have  the  honor?" 

It  was  young  Gould,  prompted  by  Georgiana. 

"  No,  no  !  I  am  faint — I  am  ill ;  pray  leave  me !" 

"  Oh,  do  come  !"  said  Robert,  who  was  everywhere 
that  night.  "  Such  birds !  Such  partridges !  Such 
chicken-salad !" 

"  Mr.  Gould,  to  oblige  you,  I  will  make  an  effort," 
said  Miss  Eliza.  "  Sometimes  a  mouthful  of  chicken- 
salad  brings  me  to  when  nothing  else  will.  Forgive  me 
if  I  lean  heavily." 

She  did  lean  heavily;  and  beside  that  one  mouthful  of 
chicken-salad,  there  was  considerable  devastation  among 
the  birds  in  her  neighborhood,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
breast  of  a  partridge  that  disappeared  altogether.  Then 
came  champagne  in  large  glasses,  which  gave  light  to 
Miss  Eliza's  tearful  eyes,  color  to  cheeks  that  did  not 
need  it,  and  warmth  to  that  poor  heart,  just  broken  for 
the  twentieth  time.  That  is  all  I  have  to  say  on  the 
subject. 

f 

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Marcus  Warland, 1 


50 


1  50 


Rena , ;  or,  the  Snow-bird, 1  50 

The  Loet  Daughter, 1  50 

Love  after  Marriage, 1  50 

Eoline;  or,  Magnolia  Vale,....  1  50 

The  Banished  Son, 1  50 

Helen  and  Arthur, 1  50 

Forsaken  Daughter, 1  50 

Planter's   Daughter, 1  50 

The  above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  in  cloth,  price  $2.00  each. 


WORKS  BY  THE  VERY  BEST   AUTHORS. 


Flirtations  in  Fashionable  Life,  1  50 

The  Lost  Beauty, 1  50 

The  Rival  Belles, 1  50 

The  Lost  Love, 1  50 

The  Woman  in  Black, 1  50 

The  Pride  of  Life, 1  50 

The  Roman  Traitor, 1  50 

Saratoga.     A  Story  of  1787,...  1  50 

The  Queen's  Favorite, 1  50 

Married  at  Last, 1  50 

False  Pride, 1  50 

Out  of  the  Depths.     The  Story 

of  a  Woman's  Life, 1  50 

The  Coquette;  or,  Life  and  Let 
ters  of  Eliza  Wharton, 1  50 

A  Woman's   Thoughts    about 

Women, 1  50 

Self-Love, 1  50 

Cora  Belmont,  1  50 

The  Devoted  Bride, 1  50 


The  Initials.  A  Story  of  Mod 
ern  Life.  By  Baroness  Taut- 

phceus, 1  50 

Love  and  Duty, 1  50 

Bohemians  in  London, 1  50 

The  Man  of  the  World, 1  50 

High  Life  in  Washington, ,  1  50 

The  Jealous  Husband, 1  50 

Self-Sacrifice, 1  50 

Belle  of  Washington, 1  50 

Courtship  and  Matrimony, 1  50 

Family  Pride, 1  50 

Family  Secrets, 1  50 

Rose  Douglas 1  50 

The  Lover's  Trials 1  50 

Beautiful  Widow, 1  50 

Brother's  Secret, 1  50 

The  Matchmaker, 1    50 

Love  and  Money, 1  50 


The  above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  in  cloth,  price  $2.00  each. 
The  Story 'of  Elizabeth.     By  Miss   Thackeray.     In    one   duodecimo  vol 
ume,  full  gilt  back.     Price  $1.00  in  paper,  or  $1.50  in  cloth. 


Books    sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of   the  Retail   Price,  by 
T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  Pa, 


4    T.  B.  PETERSON  &  BROTHERS'  PUBLICATIONS. 
MADAME  GEORGE    SAND'S  WORKS. 


Consuelo, 75 

Countess  of  Rudolstadt, 75 

First  and  True  Love, 75 

The  Corsair, 50 

Jealousy,  paper, 1  50 

Do.  cloth, 2  00 


Fanchon,  the  Cricket,  paper,...  1  00 

Do.    .  do.        cloth,...  1  50 

Indiana,  a  Love  Story,  paper,.  1  50 

Do.  cloth, 2  00 

Consuelo  and  Rudolstadt,  both 

in  one  volume,  cloth, 2  00 


WILKIE  COLLINS'  BEST  WORKS. 

The  Crossed  Path,  or  Basil,....  1  50  |  The  Dead  Secret.     12mo 1  50 

The  above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  each  one  in  cloth,  price  $2.00  each. 


Hide  and  Seek, 75 

After  Dark, 75 

The  Dead  Secret.     8vo 75 

Above  in  cloth  at  $1.00  each. 

*The  Queen's  Revenge, 75 


Mad  Monkton,  and  other  Sto 
ries, 50 

The  Stolen  Mask, 25 

The  Yellow  Mask, 25 

Sister  Rose....  25 


Sight's  a-Foot ;  or,  Travels  Beyond  Railways, 50 

MISS  PARDOE'S  WORKS, 

The  Jealous  Wife, 50  I  Rival  Beauties, 75 

Confessions  of  a  Pretty  Woman,       75  I  Romance  of  the  Harem, 75 

The  Wife's  Trials, 75  ' 

The  five  above  books  are  also  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $4.00. 
The  Adopted  Heir.     One  volume,  paper,  $1.50;  or  cloth,  $2.00. 
The  Earl's  Secret.    By  Miss  Pardoe,  ono  vol.,  paper  $1.50,  or  cloth,  $2.00. 

G.  P.  R.  JAMES'S  BEST  BOOK? 

Lord  Montague's  Page, 1  50  |  The  Cavalier, ••- 1  50 

The  above  are  in  paper  cover,  or  each  one  in  cloth,  price  $2.00  each. 

The  Man  in  Black, 75  I  Arrah  Neil, 75 

Mary  of  Burgundy, 75  I  Eva  St.  Clair, , 50 

BEST  COOK  BOOKS  PUBLISHES 

Mrs.  Goodfollow's  Cookery  as  it  Should  Be, •• 2  00 

Petersons'  New  Cook  Book, ••-. 2  00 

Miss  Leslie's  New  Cookery  Book, .'• 2  00 

Widdifield's  New  Cook  Book, : .- 2  00 

Mrs.  Hale's  Receipts  for  the  Million, •  2  00 

Miss  Leslie's  Now  Receipts  for  Cooking, ,. 2  00 

Mrs.  Hale's  New  Cook  Book, •*• 2  00 

Francatelli's  Celebrated  Cook  Book.     The   Modern  Cook.     With 
Sixty-two  illustrations,  600  large  octavo  pages, 5  00 

CHARLES  LEVER'S  BEST  WORKS, 


Charles  O'Malley, 75 

Harry  Lorrequer, 75 

Jack  Hinton, 75 

Tom  Burke  of  Ours, 75 


Knight  of  Gwynne,.t *   «...  75 

Arthur  O'Leary, ,—..  75 

Con  Cregan, •-»,  75 

Davenport  Dunn, ••  75 


Above  are  in  paper,  or  in  cloth,  price  $2.00  a  volume. 
Horace  Templeton, 75  |  Kate  O'Donoghue, -       75 


Books   sent,  postage  paid,  on  receipt  of  the  Retail  Priea-  by 
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PETERSON'S  MAGAZINE. 

This  popular  Monthly  contains  more  for  tbo  money  than  any  Magazino 
in  the  world.  In  18*57,  it  will  have  nearly  1000  pages,  14  steel  plates,  12  double- 
sized  mammoth  colored  steel  fashion  plates,  and  900  wood  engravings  —  and  all 
this  for  only  TWO  DOLLARS  A  YEAR,  or  a  dollar  less  than  magazines  of  its  class. 
Every  lady  ought  to  take  "Peterson."  In  the  general  advance  of  prices,  it  is 
THE  ONLY  MAGAZINE  THAT  HAS  NOT  RAISED  ITS  PRICE.  It  is,  therefore,  emphatically 

TO!  MAdAgGN!  ^@>R  TO!  TfiMIS, 

In  addition   to   the  usual   number  of  shorter  stories,    there  will  be  given 
in  1867,  FOUR  ORIGINAL  COPY-RIGHTED  NOVELETS,  viz  : 

RUBY  GRAY'S  REVENGE,  by  Mrs,  Ann  S.  Stephens, 

A  LONG  JOURNEY,  by  the  Author  of  "  Margaret  Howth," 
CARRY'S  COMING  OUT,  by  Frank  Lee  Benedict, 

A  BOLD  STROKE  FOR  A  HUSBAND,  by  Ella  Rodman, 
In  its  Illustrations  also,  "  Peterson  "  is  unrivalled.    The  Publisher  challenges 
a  comparison  between  its 

SUPERB  MEZZOTINTS  «fc  oilier  STEEL   ENGRAVINGS 
And  those  in  other  Magazines,  and  one  at  least  is  given  in  each  number. 

DOUBLE-SIZE  OOLOEED  PASEION  PLATES 

Each  number  will  contain  a  doxible-size  Fashion  plate,  engraved  on  steel  and 
handsomely  colored.  These  plates  contain  from  four  to  six  figures  each,  and 
excel  anything  of  the  kind.  In  addition,  wood-cuts  of  the  newest  bonnets,  hats, 
caps,  head  dresses,  cloaks,  jackets,  ball  dresses,  valking  dresses,  house  dresses, 
&c.,  &c.,  will  appear  in  each  number.  Also,  the  greatest  variety  of  children's 
dresses.  Also  diagrams,  by  aid  of  which  a  cloak,  dress,  or  child's  costume  can 
be  cut  out,  without  the  aid  of  a  mantua-maker,  so  that  each  diagram  iu  this  way 
alone,  will  save  a  year's  subscription.  The  Paris,  London,  Philadelphia  and  New 
York  fashions  described,  in  full,  each  month. 
COLORED  PATTERNS  IN  EMBROIDERY,  CROCHET,  &c. 

The  Work-Table  Department  of  this  Magazine  Is  WHOLLY  UNRIVALED. 
Every  number  contains  a  dozen  or  more  patterns  in  every  variety  of  Fancy- 
work;  Crochet,  Embroidery,  Knitting,  Bead-work,  Shell-work,  Hair-work,  &c., 
&c.,  &c.  SUPERB  COLORED  PATTERNS  FOR  SLIPPERS,  PURSES,  CHAIR  SEATS,  &c., 
given—  each  of  which  at  a  retail  store  would  cost  Fifty  cents. 


The  Original  Household  Receipts  of  "  Peterson"  are  quite  famous.  For  1867 
our  "  COOK-BOOK"  will  be  continued:  EVERY  ONE  OF  THESE  RECEIPTS  HAS  BEEN 
TESTED.  This*  alone  will  be  worth  the  price  of  "Peterson."  Other  Receipts  for 
the  Toilette,  Sick-room,  &c.,  &c.,  will  bo  given. 

NEW  AND  FASHIONABLE  Music  in  every  number.  Also,  Hints  on  Horticul 
ture,  Equestrianism,  and  all  matters  interesting  to  ladies. 

TERMS—  ALWAYS  IN  ADVANCE. 


1  Copy,  for  one  year.  $2.00 


3  Copies,         "  4.50 

4  "  "  6.00 


5  Copies,  (and  1  to  getter  up  Club.)  S  8.00 


and  1  to  getter  up  Club.)    12.00 
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A  CHOICE  OF  PREMIUMS.  Where  a  person  is  entitled  to  an 
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extra  copy,  a  superb  premium  mezzotint  for  framing,  (size  27  inches  by  20,) 
"  WASHINGTON  PARTING  FROM  HIS  GENERALS,"  or  a  LADY'S  ILLUSTRATED  ALBUM, 
handsomely  bound  and  gilt,  or  either  of  the  famous  "BUNYAN  MEZZOTINTS,"  tho 
same  size  as  the  "WASHINGTON."  Always  state  whether  an  extra  copy  or  one  of 
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delphia  or  New  York  :  if  neither  of  these  can  bo  had,  send  green-backs  or  bank 
notes.  Address,  post-paid, 

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KB  K.  VLSI  i  nu  mum 


T.   B.   PETERSON   AND   BROTHERS, 

PUBLISHERS   AND   BOOKSELLERS, 
PHILADELPHIA,  PA,, 

Take   pleasure   in  calling    the   attention    of    the  public  to   their 
Choice  and  Extensive  Stock  of  Books,  comprising  a  col 
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To  Collectors  of  Libraries,  or  those  desiring  to  form  them, 

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For  the  convenience  of  Book  buyers,  and  those  seeking  suitable  Works  for  Presenta 
tion,  great  care  is  taken  in  having  a  large  and  varied  collection,  and  all  the  current 
works  of  the  day.  Show  counters  and  shelves,  with  an  excellent  selection  of  Standard, 
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JSST  Catalogues  are  sent,  on  application,  and  great  attention  is  paid  to  communications 
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To  Booksellers  and   Librarians, 

T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers  issue  New  Books  every  month,  comprising  the  most  enter 
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AUG 16  1975  2 


LD21—  A-40w-i2,'74  General  Library 

(82 700i.)  University  of  California 

Berkeley 


J-'-L  J.  c  JL         O 


M274798 


50 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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